A Time of War

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/20229826.

Rating: Not Rated

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire &
Related Fandoms
Relationship: Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Robert Baratheon/Cersei Lannister, Jon
Snow & Robb Stark, Renly Baratheon/Margaery Tyrell, Daenerys
Targaryen/Viserys Targaryen, Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Additional
tags will be added - Relationship, Robb Stark/Rhaenys Targaryen
(Daughter of Elia)
Character: Jon Snow, Robb Stark, Arya Stark, Ashara Dayne, Ned Stark, Benjen
Stark, Arthur Dayne, Original House Stark Character(s), Robert
Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon, Myrcella Baratheon,
Tommen Baratheon, Mark Ryswell, Jaime Lannister, Tyrion Lannister,
Sandor Clegane, Jon "The Greatjon" Umber, Brynden Tully, Wyman
Manderly, Ethan Glover, Jon "The Smalljon" Umber, Gendry Waters,
Samwell Tarly, Devan Seaworth, Davos Seaworth, Eddard Karstark,
Harrion Karstark, Torrhen Karstark, Theon Greyjoy, Rhaenys
Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen, Jory Cassel, Martyn Cassel, Asher
Forrester, Oswell Whent, Maester Luwin, Roose Bolton, Domeric
Bolton, Ramsay Bolton, Rickard Karstark, Jorah Mormont, Galbart
Glover, Willam Dustin, Varys (ASoIaF), Petyr Baelish, Renly Baratheon,
Pycelle (ASoIaF), Stannis Baratheon, Tywin Lannister, Roland
Crakehall, Addam Marbrand, Quenten Banefort, Gregor Clegane,
Oberyn Martell, Mace Tyrell, Olenna Tyrell, Garlan Tyrell, Loras Tyrell,
Margaery Tyrell, Edmure Tully, Denys Arryn, Janos Slynt, Jacelyn
Bywater, Lysa Tully Arryn
Additional Tags: The Second Hour of the Wolf, Ned knows all, Ned isn't dumb, The Burnt
Lord will make an appearence, eventually, War of the Six Kings
Series: Part 3 of The White Wolf Rises.
Stats: Published: 2019-08-13 Updated: 2020-06-22 Chapters: 29/? Words:
95426

A Time of War
by KingOfWinter

Summary

It has been sixteen years since the events of Rickard's Rebellion shook the realm. In the
North, Eddard Stark rules contentedly while the ghosts of the past become but a fading
memory. In the south, the realm is uneasy and the stirrings of war are beginning. Rickard
Stark has been missing for four years, and players have rushed to fill the void he has left
behind. Chaos is breeding, and how much longer will it be before the realm bursts into
war?

The sequel to The Fall of Dragons. Recommended to read that first before reading this.
Notes

So...I'm back.

Thank you all for your support and commentary on The Fall of Dragons, it was really
appreciated.
Here is the second arc.
For those of you that read the part which I scrapped, you might notice a few things have
changed, and a few things haven't.

One thing I have changed, is that I haven't named all the relationships. I will name them as
we come to them, and while most of them are planned, some aren't. Leave a suggestion for
your favorite character and I'll see what happens.

And too whoever asked for Mors "Cut Throat" Cassel, (So sorry, I forgot who asked), he is
coming. I have a plan for him and know how to work him in! So keep your eyes peeled.

Let me know what you think of this. Leave a comment. It really means the world to me and
keeps me inspired to keep writing.

And finally,

Massive thanks to my beta readers, Cliffhanger247 and Baamon5evr, who this would never
have happened without, and special mention to King_of_Kings for encouraging me and
listening to me talk about all my crazy ideas.
 Chapter 1

Ashara I:

Ashara had loved the godswood of Starfall. It was a bright, cheery place; more garden than wood,
sunny and airy, and filled with the chirping of birds and the buzzing of bees. Warm winds drifted
through the towering trees, and the smell of flowers lingered in the air.

The Starks kept a different sort of godswood. Theirs was a dark place of primal worship, three
acres of ancient forest that had remained untouched by human hands for 10,000 years as first a
castle, and then a city had grown up around it. It smelt of moist earth and decay, and death lingered
in every shadow. No flowers grew here and many different trees towered above her, soaring
towards heaven’s heights, including oaks and ironwood trees. The floor was blanketed with 10,000
years of humus, providing a soft surface to walk upon. This was a place of dark shadows and
darker worship, and the gods who lived here had no names.

It was before the heart tree that she found him, knelt next to the ancient skeleton that would
celebrate its 300th birthday very soon. It was the skeleton of the rapist that Brandon Snow had
executed on that fateful day 300 years ago, left here for every Stark to gaze upon, to be reminded
of where they had come from and where they were going.

The skeleton was covered in creepers and dirt, and now very little could be seen but for the man’s
grinning skull and his ribcage. Like the gaze of the heart tree, the skeleton’s empty sockets seemed
to bore right through a man, gazing at his innermost being. Ashara had never felt comfortable
under his gaze.

She shifted her gaze to her husband, who was kneeled before the heart tree in ancient prayer. Ice
was held in his hands, the blood of the deserter he had executed this morning still staining its
smoking depths. Ned’s mouth moved as he prayed to his gods, and for a second Ashara regretted
having to disturb her husband.

“Ned,” she called softly. She saw her husband’s mouth stop moving. After a moment, his eyes
opened and he turned to her with a soft smile, though Ashara thought she saw a hint of sadness
behind them.

“Ashara,” Ned greeted as he lowered his sword into the black pool of water beneath the heart tree
and washed it clean of the blood that stained it.

“A raven has arrived from the king,” she told him, thinking of the moment that Maester Luwin had
arrived with the letter.

“He’s dead then?” Ned asked, his voice filled with sorrow.

Ashara nodded softly, understanding the sadness in her husband’s voice. Jon Arryn had been like a
father to him, and Ned had loved the old lord dearly. She knew it had torn him apart on the inside
to have to stand back and watch as men had conspired to kill him. The Bloody Accords were clear
though, and Rickard Stark had already warned them against breaking them again.

Ned sighed heavily and dried his blade with moss he pulled from the rock next to him.

“I want to kill him,” he snarled, “and that Tully whore too.”

Ashara knew Ned must have been furious if he had found the courage to say that. Ned had always
been regretful of how the Tullys had been treated by his father and had done his best to repair the
fractured relationship between their houses. House Tully had taken the gold and resources the
Starks offered but refused their apologies. Ned had been forever repentant, but it was to no avail.
The Tullys still loathed him as much as ever.

“You can’t, Ned.” Ashara replied softly as she moved to his side. “The Accords are clear.”

“I know,” he whispered as he placed his sword back in its sheath,

“But I still want to. It wouldn’t take much.”

“No, but we can’t.” Ashara told him as she placed her hand on his arm.

Ned nodded, but she saw the bitterness on his face. She suspected they would be arguing over this
for the next few days and wondered if perhaps he would be the one to win this argument.

“There’s more,” she murmured as she leant into his side and handed him the scroll. She watched as
he read the parchment, and the ways way the skin around his eyes tightened and his lips pursed.

“Robert is coming here?” He asked, and Ashara nodded in confirmation.

“You know what he will want, don’t you?” She asked him and he nodded gravely.

“Why else would he take a month-long trek from the capital? He means to make me Hand of the
King.”

“He does,” Ashara responded, her heart heavy with the weight of his decision.

“I will meet him at Moat Cailin,” Ned declared.

“I will not have him in the halls of Winterfell after he called you a whore and tried to kill our son.”
Ashara winced at his words.

“Ned, you can’t do that. Robert will be coming to Winterfell. Anything less would be a grave
insult to him. His wife is said to be prickly enough already. Don’t do anything to anger them,” she
advised.

“Fucking Lannisters,” Ned muttered as he trailed his hand through the pool.

“More news arrived,” Ashara informed him.

“Your brother sent a raven.”

Ned’s mood lifted almost immediately, and a small smile graced his features. He loved hearing
word of his brother and went up to visit him in Hardhome every few years.

“Benjen?” He asked, “What news did he send? Has he completed the task I set for him?”

“Grave news,” Ashara replied, and Ned’s mood soured as quickly as it had cured.

“What now?” He asked, with a hint of fatigue in his frame.

“A wildling army has gathered beyond the Wall. There is are stirrings of a new King-beyond-the-
Wall. Mance Rayder, Benjen called him.” Ashara shivered just to hear his name.

Ned’s father, Rickard Stark, had set up four lordships in the lands beyond the Wall. Hardhome,
Lord Benjen Hardstark’s domain, was the last of them. The other settlements had not done well,
and the other survivor, Fort Firstfist, had been abandoned three years ago after it had come under
attack by the Thenns.

Ned nodded, “I will send a raven to Benjen immediately. He can visit Winterfell, visit the king and
pick up some troops while here.”

Ned stopped for a moment, and Ashara saw him pondering something.

“I shall send Jon with them.” He announced, and Ashara’s heart plummeted.

Jon was their eldest son and heir, and the leader of the Wolf Pack. He spent his days with the other
heirs and second sons of the North, building the bonds that set the North apart from the south. The
Wolf Pack was the reason the lords of the North were so loyal to the Starks of Winterfell. They
were all raised as brothers and the trying circumstances of their lives bred them to put petty
differences aside.

“Not Jon,” she exclaimed, “he is not ready!”

“He needs the experience.” Ned replied gravely.

“Better for him to gain it against the hands of ill-armed wildlings than the steel of southern
knights.”

Ashara’s heart twisted in her chest. The memories of another war, an older war, filled her mind.
Memories of arms that were missing and an empty heart.

“How are the rest of the children?” He asked her, and her heart filled with love for him. Her and
Ned had been busy following Rickard’s Rebellion, and now had five children together. Their eldest
was Jon, a brilliant swordsman who was beginning to show the makings of a wonderful lord of
Winterfell. The second eldest, and second son, was Artos Stark. He had been born in 286 A.C., and
like Jon, was an incredible swordsman, though Artos was more prone to bouts of impulsiveness.
Ned said the Wolf Blood was strong in him.

Then Ashara had given birth to her twins, the ones who had the most Wolf Blood of any of her
children. Arya and Dyanna Stark had been born in 289 A.C., and both were wild girls that preferred
playing with the boys than wearing dresses.

Ashara’s youngest was her quietest child. His name was Alaric, and though only six, he was a very
sour little boy. He had been aptly named Ashara thought, for the last Alaric Stark had also been of
a sour temperament.

“They are well,” Ashara replied to Ned.

“Arya and Dyanna got caught stealing from the sweetshop again with Vorian.” Ned laughed.

“Of course, they did,” he said before his expression changed.

“But they shouldn’t have taken Vorian with them. He is sickly enough as it is.”

Vorian Dayne was Ashara’s nephew, the son of Arthur. While officially no one knew who
Vorian’s mother was, in reality it was Elia Martell, who remained hidden in Mount Starpoint.
Arthur had persistently pursued Elia for years with Ashara’s encouragement and in 289 A.C., he
had finally succeeded in convincing her to marry him. In 290 A.C., Elia had defied the expectations
of all the maesters and given birth to another baby boy, Vorian. Vorian though had inherited his
mother’s sickliness, and often ran out of breath. He could not run like the other boys, and thus was
often left out of their games. Arya and Dyanna, who also found themselves left out of the boys’
games, had taken him under their wing when he had arrived in Winterfell at six years of age. They
had been closest cousins ever since.

“He will be fine,” Ashara consoled, “the fresh air will do him well.”

The two sat in comfortable silence for a moment, enjoying the quiet sanctity of what was a
beautiful morning.

“What of your father?” Ashara asked after a moment.

“What of him?” Ned asked, his voice tense.

“Will you tell him?”

“Knowing him, he most likely already knows.”

“Should we invite him back to Winterfell?” Ashara asked.

“No,” Ned replied, “you don’t invite my father anywhere. He goes where he pleases and woe to
any man that steps in his way.”

After a moment more, Ned sighed and got to his feet.

“We must prepare for Robert’s coming,” he said, “We need to organise much.”

He helped Ashara to her feet and linked his arm with hers. Together the husband and wife left the
godswood to prepare for the coming of the king, and the ensuing storm that always followed in
Robert’s wake.
 Robert I: The King comes North
Chapter Summary

Robert travels North.

Chapter Notes

Yes, as many of you pointed out last chapter one of Ned and Ashara's children has
disappeared. And yes, it was Lyarra. She no longer exists, forget she ever happened.
Sorry for the confusion. Leave a comment and let me know what you think!

And if you want Lyarra back let me know too! I sort of have a plan for her, but it
wasn't as detailed as the other siblings which is why I cut her out. I can being her back
if wanted!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Robert I:

Gods, it felt good to be out of the capital riding along like he did in the days of old. The wind
whistled around them, blowing his long hair away from the sides of his face. Robert had missed
this immensely, the feel of cool air on his cheeks.

Robert hadn’t felt air this cool since he had left the Eyrie with Jon all those years ago, when
Gulltown still needed to be put down and Aerys yet sat on the throne. Those were better days. They
were days when a man could pick up his hammer, mount his horse and fight his way through life.
Now Robert was stuck inside dealing with all the shit that came with being a king. Ever since Jon
had died, it had gotten even worse. Everything that Jon had once dealt with Robert now had to.

It was why he needed Ned so much. Ned would serve him well, he always had. It was Ned who
had stopped Randyll Tarly from reinforcing Rhaegar at the Trident, and it was Ned who had
captured Rhaegar as well. It was Ned who talked Balon Greyjoy down from rebelling when
rumours were circulating the realm nine years ago. It was from Ned who Robert had borrowed half
a million dragons when the realm had been in need. Ned had always been there for Robert him and
always would be.

His best friend’s only problem was his wife. Ned would do anything for the woman, something
declared in the songs the bards sung of him. They sung of the wolf lord who had fought his way
across a realm just to marry the love of his life. It was the stuff of legends, and Ned and his father
were both living legends nowadays. Robert may have won the crown, but Ned had won the battles
and Rickard had won the war. It was called Rickard’s Rebellion after all, not Robert’s.

Behind him, Robert heard something break and he groaned. If Ned’s wife was a problem, Robert’s
own wife was hell on earth. The great gilded carriage she had demanded be brought had broken yet
another axle, and Robert was about to tear his hair out from frustration. That damned carriage had
made their journey twice as long as it could have been. It seemed like they stopped twice a day
because of it.

“What’s happened now?” Robert bellowed as he wheeled his horse around.

Cersei emerged from the carriage and placed one of her feet onto the cobblestoned road. If there
was one thing that Ned had done better than the south, it was his bloody roads. They were all
cobbled, and since getting on the part of the northern road at Moat Cailin, their journey had been
sped up considerably.

The golden-haired woman scowled at him darkly. For someone with such a pretty face, she
certainly knew how to be ugly. She raised her nose at him before turning around and getting back
into the wheelhouse wordlessly.

“Stupid cunt,” Robert muttered at her retreating figure before yelling for someone to fix it. He
swung his horse around and headed back to the front of the column where he could wait in peace.

As he rode, Robert glanced around him at the stunning countryside. This was true freedom he
surmised, the freedom to go where you pleased, when you pleased, how you pleased. The storm
king wished someone else had of taken the crown from him. Ned would have made a much better
king, one just had to look at the state of his realm to see what an effective ruler he was.

Ned’s castles were beautiful yet practical and imposing, commanding the respect and attention of
any who entered the North. This trip was the first time the king saw the feared fortress, Moat
Cailin, and he suddenly understood why the North was the only kingdom of the First Men to have
never fallen to the Andal invaders.

It was a bastion of strength, composed of twenty towers and curtain walls taller than any Robert
had even seen before. It housed a garrison as large as that of the city watch of King’s Landing, and
was serviced by a small army of smiths, fletchers and armorers who were constantly pumping out
new weapons. Its walls were covered with catapults and scorpions, and they all aimed down a very
narrow causeway that any invading army would be forced to march up. It was a death trap for any
who dared to attack it. What amazed Robert even more though was that the maesters said that the
castle had been in ruins for hundreds of years up until the rule of Cregan Stark, the Old Man of the
North.

The countryside of Ned’s realm was littered with farmhouses and small towns while expansive
fields of crops filled every pasture. What grassland wasn’t filled with the North’s yields was
populated with great herds of furred cattle or large flocks of sheep. The forests of the North were
vast, and the roads well made. The North was a realm of wealth and power, and it was no wonder
that they had been the ones to throw the Targaryens from their throne.

Robert had only seen a small fraction of the continent’s northernmost realm and that had not
included the famed Wolf’s Maw, or the mines of Lonely Mountain, or the navies of the western
and eastern coasts, or even the domain of the Lord-beyond-the-Wall, Hardhome. Thoughts of
Hardhome turned Robert’s mind to its lord, Benjen Hardstark, Ned’s younger brother. He
wondered how the little man was doing. He had been just 14 when Robert had met him at
Harrenhal and was a youth with laughing eyes. He wondered if Benjen still had his laughing eyes
or if the lands beyond the Wall had forged him into someone who was as hard as the lands he
ruled. Someone like Stannis.

The king shuddered to think of his brother. The man was as stern and unforgiving as any Robert he
had ever met. Robert wondered if he would meet the smuggler that had his fingers taken by
Stannis. They said he was in service to Ned’s son, Jon, now. Stannis had fled back to Dragonstone
after Jon Arryn’s death and every raven had been met with stony silence. That did not bode well.
Perhaps he could find a new Master of Ships while he was up here. A Saltstark perhaps or even a
Manderly.

Behind him came the news that the carriage was fixed, and Robert whooped in delight. He kicked
his horse’s sides hard and it galloped forward, on towards Winterfell and Ned.

Next to him rode his kingsguard who came from the North, and the one he trusted the most, Mark
Ryswell. Mark had been given the white cloak in the aftermath of Rickard’s Rebellion, and was the
first to serve in the white cloaks without a knighthood. He was the only one in Robert’s kingsguard
whose loyalty was to the king first. The rest of them belonged to either Cersei or their own hip-
pockets. Ser Barristan was the exception, but he had been loyal to the Targaryens first and Robert
didn’t trust him over Mark.

Next to Mark rode Lord Torrhen Starkstark, Robert’s Northern representative on his small council
as per the terms of the peace treaty he negotiated with Rickard Stark. They mocked Robert behind
his back for that treaty, but the king didn’t care. Ned had always been loyal, and if he had of asked
him, Robert would have given him his crown as well. What was a mere treaty to that, even if it
demanded more than the average monarch would have given?

The three rode in silence along the kingsroad ahead of the main group and towards the distant
walls of the Wintercity and the spires of Winterfell, enjoying their surroundings. For Mark and
Torrhen this was their first time home in almost 16 years. It was a sweet reunion for them to be
sure.

“Look Mark!” Torrhen called as he pointed to a grey fort within the city walls, “there is the Wolf
Fort!”

Mark burst out into a grin and looked at the distant fort with a sense of sentimentality.

“There she is,” he agreed, “our old hunting grounds.”

“Old hunting grounds? What do you mean?” Robert asked.

“That’s were where all of us grew up. In the North, all the young nobles are raised together
alongside the future Lord of Winterfell.” Torrhen explained.

“You mean you fostered there? Every single one of you?”

“Aye.” Mark confirmed. “And they were the greatest days of my life. Every day we were going
somewhere new with Brandon, getting into trouble and having new adventures. Then Brandon, the
wolf-blooded, gallant fool that he was, rushed off with half of our Wolf Pack to King’s Landing.
Many of our brothers joined him, never to be seen again.”

“We avenged them though,” Torrhen said. A seriousness sat in his tone that was not normally
there.

“You did.” Robert agreed. “And then you warned the world of your wrath.”

The first time Robert had seen that weirwood tree with Rhaegar’s face looking over King’s
Landing, he had felt a savage sense of anger. He had wanted to be the one to kill him. Over the
years though, as he had aged and his body weakened, he had found great comfort in Rhaegar’s
screaming face. It was a death more painful than any Robert could have given him, and the green
men who tended to the tree informed Robert that Rhaegar’s soul was most likely still trapped
within the white branches and red leaves. It was a mockery of life deserving of the man that had
stolen the woman he loved.
“We most probably should wait for the others to catch up before we arrive at the Wintercity’s
gates,” Mark said and Torrhen cracked a grin.

“Why?” he asked, “Let’s just ride in ourselves and leave Prince Ponce to deal with the savage
Northern masses all by himself.”

Mark burst out laughing and even though Robert tried not to, he cracked a grin. Prince Ponce was
what Torrhen had called the crown prince, Robert’s son Joffrey, for years now. Robert would have
and should have been offended, but for the most part he actually agreed with Torrhen. Joffrey was
a ponce and Torrhen had the balls to say it to the king’s face, something Robert respected him
immensely for. Torrhen was the reason why he liked Northerners; they told it as it was and didn’t
fill their speech with flowery words that meant nothing.

As they waited, Torrhen turned back to Robert.

“Who are you going to ask to be Hand if Ned refuses?”

Robert frowned at the member of his small council.

“Ned won’t refuse me,” he said angrily, “Ned has always been loyal to me.”

Mark winced on Robert’s other side and Robert glared at him.

“What?” The rotund man snapped.

“With all due respect Your Grace, last time you saw Ned you didn’t depart on the best of terms.”

Robert, to this day, had regrets about his and Ned’s last meeting. Robert had been stupid and a
fool, and he had paid dearly for it.

“I signed their treaty, didn’t I?” Robert asked testily. “What more can they want?”

“Robert, last time you saw him you tried to kill his son. That is not something that is just
forgotten,” Mark said softly.

Robert cringed at himself as he remembered his rage-fuelled attack on the little babe.

“I got it wrong,” Robert admitted before raising his head and looking Mark in the eye, “And the
first thing I will do when I see Ned is fall on my knees and beg his forgiveness!”

“And what if Ned decides he can’t leave the North?” Torrhen asked, his tone serious.

“The role of Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell is a large one.”

“Cregan managed it and so can Ned.” Robert responded.

“Cregan managed it for six days,” Mark replied.

“Then I will ask Denys Arryn!” Robert roared before continuing, clearly frustrated, “but I don’t
believe for one second that Ned cannot hand over his duties to his son and come south for me!”

Torrhen’s face fell dramatically and he clutched his heart in mock hurt.

“And here I was thinking I was his second choice!” He muttered to Mark.

Robert burst out laughing at the antics of the Northern representative and the three shared a few
 final, good moments before the rest of the royal retinue arrived.

Together once again, the retinue rode on and into the Wintercity.

Chapter End Notes

I know that so far this isn't that different to what I originally posted, but stick with me
please. And please, leave a comment! Let me know what you think!
 Ned I: The King Who Knelt
Chapter Summary

Robert arrives in Winterfell. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think!

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Ned I:

Ned waited patiently in the courtyard beside his family as they waited for the king's arrival.
Though Ned was the picture of calmness, inside he was tearing himself apart. What did you say to
a best friend who called your wife a whore and tried to kill your infant son? How was Ned meant to
respond to that? Should he kneel or should he follow his father’s example and refuse?

Ned hadn’t seen Robert in sixteen long years, not since that fateful day all those years ago when
Robert had swung his warhammer at Ned’s own son. They had left on bad terms and neither had
done anything to repair the relationship since.

He felt Ashara’s hand lightly touch his before she entwined her fingers with his. He turned his
head and smiled at her. She smiled softly back. The years had been kind to his wife, and she was as
beautiful as the day he had first seen her. He pressed a kiss to the top of her forehead before
inspecting the line of his children.

Jon stood first in line, his firstborn son. He was almost sixteen now and a brilliant swordsman and
skilled leader of men. His Wolf Pack, a group of boys 150 strong, were utterly devoted to him and
had ridden with him from Karhold to Riversmaw, as well as going with Jon to Braavos for three
months a year back. Jon’s closest companion, Robb Snow, Brandon’s bastard son, stood slightly
behind him at his right shoulder. The two were as close as any man could be, and their relationship
reminded Ned of the relationship he shared with Robert when they lived in the Vale.

Artos was standing tall next to Jon, his wild gaze unusually brooding. Something was bothering
him, though what it was, Ned had no clue. Ned only hoped it didn’t cause trouble with any of the
royals.

Arya and Dyanna stood next to him, and, amazingly, neither of them had disappeared the entire
morning, a new accomplishment for both. Ned didn’t know what Ashara had threatened them with,
but it had been bloody effective.

Next to them stood Alaric, his little face screwed up with a seriousness that not even Ned had
expressed as a babe. He was aptly named to be sure.

A call came from the gatehouse and the entire household stiffened as the king’s retinue entered.

The visitors poured through the castle’s gate in a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three
hundred and fifty strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and freeriders. Over
their heads whipped the banners of house Baratheon and house Lannister, gold and black and gold
and red.
Ned knew many of the riders. There was Ser Jaime Lannister, the kingslayer, and Sandor Clegane
with his terrible, burnt face. Ned knew how Sandor had gotten that burn and it wasn’t a pretty
story, nor was it one that was told to the masses. Next to Sandor rode a tall boy who could only
have been Prince Ponce himself. Behind them rode the short, stunted form of Tyrion Lannister, The
Imp.

It was at the head of the column though that Ned spotted those he recognised most. First was Mark
Ryswell in his brilliant white cloak, flapping in the wind while next to him rode Torrhen
Starkstark, Lord of Autumnfell and the Northern representative on the small council.

In front of them rode a man that Ned almost did not recognise. It was one thing to hear stories of
what Robert Baratheon had become, it was another to see it with his own two eyes.

“Ned!” The huge man roared as he vaulted off a long-suffering horse.

“Ah, but is it good to see that frozen face of yours!”

Would that Ned had been able to say the same, but he couldn’t, not with the history and bitterness
that existed between them now.

Ned dropped to one knee, and his household followed suit.

“Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.” He said, his voice as formal as ever.

“No!” Robert roared as he pulled Ned back to his feet.

“It is I who must fall to my knees before you, old friend.”

And then, to Ned’s amazement, Robert did just that.

"Forgive me Ned,” Robert beseeched, “for all the wrongs I did your family and your kingdom all
those years ago.”

So surprised was Ned that he was struck speechless for a moment. This was not the Robert he
remembered.

Fifteen years past, when they had ridden forth to win a throne, the Lord of Storm’s End had been
clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a maiden’s fantasy. Six and a half feet tall, he towered
over lesser men, and when he donned his armour and the great antlered helmet of his house, he
became a veritable giant. He’d had a giant’s strength too, his weapon of choice a spiked iron
warhammer that Ned could scarcely lift. In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to
him like perfume. He had a temper too, and an unwillingness to ever admit that he was wrong,
especially when he was in his cups. Perhaps that was what this was. Perhaps Robert was drunk.
Mark had warned him that the king had become extremely partial to drink.

“How much have you had to drink today, Robert?” Ned asked. He saw a genuine flash of hurt
cross Robert’s face. It was then that Ned knew Robert was being sincere. Ned grabbed his friend's
arm and pulled him to his feet.

“You’re not drunk,” he stated. Robert nodded.

Ned looked deep into his old friend’s eyes and saw true regret in them. Robert had never done well
at masking his emotions, much like Ned. Over the years though, and under his wife’s tutelage, Ned
had gotten much better. Robert hadn’t, it seemed.
“All is forgiven, Your Grace. But I am not the only one you need to apologise to.”

Ned gestured to his left, where his wife stood waiting patiently. A flash of guilt crossed Robert’s
face and he turned to greet Ashara while Ned turned his gaze to the rest of the retinue.

By now, the others were dismounting as well and grooms were coming forward to take care of the
horses. Robert’s queen, Cersei Lannister, stepped down from the carriage. Though she wore a
smile on her face, her eyes gave away the truth of her feelings. She was flanked by her younger
children who looked around shyly.

Cersei made her way over to Ned and he knelt before her while Robert greeted Ash warmly,
though there was still a tenseness in the air between them. While Ned kissed Cersei’s ring, Robert
greeted the rest of his children.

Robert returned to Ned once he had greeted them.

“Take me down to your crypts, Ned," he demanded, “I would pay my respects.”

“We have had a long journey. Surely the dead can wait.” Cersei responded.

Robert turned a gaze on her so cold that even Ned shivered before it. Wordlessly her brother
appeared in his white cloak, took her by the arm and led her away.

Ned led Robert the other way, towards the crypts where the love he thought he had lay. They
entered the winding, narrow staircase and made their way down to Lyanna’s crypt. They stood in
silence for a moment, looking at the statues of Brandon and Lyanna.

“She was more beautiful than that.” Robert said after a moment, his voice hoarse with grief.

“Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this? She deserved more than
darkness.”

“She was a Stark of Winterfell. Her place is here,” Ned explained quietly.

“Her place was by my side, but Rhaegar took her from me,” Robert replied.

“Rhaegar is dead now. Let the dead lie in peace."

“In my dreams, I kill him every night and during my waking hours, I spend time just staring at that
face upon the tree, content with the eternal pain he is suffering," Robert admitted.

Ned didn’t know how to respond, so he stayed silent. After a while of sorrowful quiet, he spoke.

“We should return, Your Grace. Your wife will be waiting.”

“The Others take my wife,” Robert responded sourly.

“And no more of this ‘Your Grace’ business. You are more to me than that.”

Ned didn’t respond, his thoughts still filled with the day he had arrived with Lyanna’s bones and
his infant son that Robert had tried to kill in the name of his dead sister.

“Ned,” Robert asked, “what’s wrong?”

They stopped walking and Ned pondered on how to respond.

“Tell me of Jon,” he eventually said, though it wasn’t what bothered him.

“I have never seen a man sicken so quickly,” Robert relayed with a shake of his head.

“Was it poison?” Ned asked, and Robert’s head shot up.

“Of course not! The maester assured me it was a sickness of the bowels," Robert replied.

Robert was blind, blind to the treasonous snakes within his own household. and Ned mourned for
the boy he had loved. He knew they would turn their gaze on him next. Ned didn’t bother asking
about Jon’s wife, he already knew all he had to know with her. He would have his vengeance on
her one day.

“Who will you name Warden of the East?” Ned asked.

“Cersei thinks I should name Jaime Lannister,” Robert said and Ned shook his head in disbelief.

“And what of Denys,” he asked, “have you forgotten him?”

“Of course not! I was about to tell you that I instead planned on naming him regent for Jon’s son
and Warden of the East, Robert replied angrily.

That was good, except for one problem: Jon’s son didn’t exist. Robin Arryn was no Arryn but a
Stone. Denys was the true heir to the Vale and deserved more than being named regent for the
offspring of a petty lord that had no place in the Eyrie’s hallowed halls. Ned nodded seriously
though, not betraying the roiling emotions that raged within him.

“Enough of this. There is a more important office to discuss, and I would not argue with you.”

Robert grasped the other man by the elbow.

“I have need of you, Ned.”

“I am yours to command, Your Grace. Always.” They were words he had to say, and so he said
them, apprehensive about what might come next. Robert scarcely seemed to hear him.

“Those years we spent in the Eyrie . . . gods, those were good years. I want you at my side again,
Ned. I want you down in King’s Landing, not up here at the end of the world where you are no
damned use to anybody.”

Robert looked off into the darkness, for a moment, appearing as melancholy as a Stark.

“I swear to you, sitting a throne is a thousand times harder than winning one. Laws are a tedious
business and counting coppers is worse. And the people . . . there is no end of them. I sit on that
damnable iron chair and listen to them complain until my mind is numb and my ass is raw. They
all want something: money or land or justice. The lies they tell . . . and my lords and ladies are no
better. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools. The only true men around me are Torrhen and
Mark.”

Ned tried his hardest not to wince. Not even they were as true as Robert supposed.

“It can drive a man to madness, Ned. Half of them don’t dare tell me the truth, and the other half
can’t find it. There are nights I wish we had lost at the Trident. Ah, no, not truly, but . . . “

“I understand,” Ned said softly.

“I think you do. If so, you are the only one, my old friend.” Robert looked at him and smiled.

“Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King. Come south with me, and I’ll teach
you how to laugh again. Your armies won me this damned throne, now help me keep it. We were
meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we would have been brothers, bound by blood as well
as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have daughters. My Joff and one of your
twins shall join our houses as Lyanna and I might have done.”

Ned dropped to one knee. Neither offer surprised him; what other reason could Robert have had for
coming so far? The Hand of the King was the second-most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.
He spoke with the king’s voice, commanded the king’s armies, drafted the king’s laws. At times he
even sat upon the Iron Throne to dispense the king’s justice when the king was absent, or sick, or
otherwise indisposed. Robert was offering him a responsibility as large as the realm itself.

It was the last thing in the world he wanted. It was the last thing in the realm he could do. The
Bloody Accords were clear.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must refuse the honour of Hand of the King.” Ned responded.

Robert rolled his eyes good naturedly.

“I’m not trying to honour you! I’m trying to get you to do all my work!” He exclaimed.

Ned shook his head.

“You misunderstand me, Robert. I cannot accept the position.”

Robert’s eyebrows crinkled and Ned thought he saw a flash of annoyance in his old friend’s eyes.

“And why not?” Robert challenged.

“My duties within the North are too extensive and wide-ranging for me to also take on the duties of
the Hand of the King.”

“Nonsense!” Robert bellowed. “Cregan Stark managed it.”

“Cregan Stark managed it for six days,” Ned reminded him and Robert scowled.

“I would also need to talk to Ash,” Ned said, and he saw Robert’s gaze tighten.

“And what of a betrothal?” He barked, clearly irritated.

Ned winced. Ashara and his father had warned him that something like this was coming years ago.
With the agreement that Ned’s father had struck at the end of the war, a marriage between the Iron
Throne and House Stark was the only way of ensuring that Tywin Lannister’s legacy was secure.
Ned doubted it would have taken Cersei much to convince Robert of the merits of her father’s
plan.

But Ned would not send his daughters south. His sister had gone south and she had returned in a
wooden coffin, her body pale and lifeless. He would not have the same fate bestowed up on upon
his daughters, especially the two that were the mirror images of Lyanna at the same age.

“No,” Ned said evenly.

“No?” Robert asked, and in the torchlight, Ned saw a dangerous glint in his old friend’s eye.
Robert had never been accustomed to being denied anything. Women, wine and even his throne
 had not been denied to him, even when it did Robert no good.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I must first talk to my wife. Ashara would not be happy if I
organised the betrothal of one of her daughters without hearing from her first."

“Alright then,” Robert said after a moment’s silence, “talk to your wife. But don’t leave me waiting
too long. I’m an impatient man.”

With that, Robert turned and stormed his way out of the crypts, leaving Ned alone in the hall of the
dead. He could feel their eyes watching him, their stone gaze boring through him. They were all
listening, he knew. And winter was coming. Winter was always coming.

Chapter End Notes

Next chapter we get Jon's first perspective and the first major divergence from what I
originally posted.
 Jon I: A Feast For Wolves
Chapter Summary

The Feast At Winterfell Happens.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The feast was in full swing and the room was filled with the buzz of the feast goers, most of whom
were in various states of drunkenness. Jon had kept one eye on Artos the entire night under his
father’s instruction, yet somehow his cheeks were flushed and his speech was slurred. The guards
said that he was the Brandon Stark come again.

To be fair though, his Wolf Pack wasn’t in a much better state. Asher Forrester was drunkenly
performing a ballad of the time that he had killed a giant snow bear when they had been hunting in
the woods near Last Hearth a few years back. He wore the pelt of the bear as a coat even now, and
it was the gaudiest coat that Jon had seen any Northerner ever wear. For some reason Asher had
left the head attached and used it as the beginnings of a sleeve instead.

Smalljon Umber and Brynden Bloodstark were glaring at each other from opposite ends of the
table, their fingers cradling the knives that rested on their belts. Jon wasn’t that concerned though.
He had seen the amount of wine that Brynden had consumed and had witnesses the Smalljon’s
throwing skills in the yard. He doubted either was in much danger.

Gendry Waters was having a conversation with Walton Whitestark over a roast boar and a jug of
fine northern ale. Samwell Tarly and Devan Seaworth were listening in, while next to them, the
three Karstark brothers were getting hammered off shots of Vodka with Rickon Riverstark.

Theon Greyjoy was on his third jug of spiced wine, and had one of the serving girls in his lap.
Theon was a good man, and a better friend, but his appetite for women and wine was almost
ceaseless.

It was nowhere near as much however as the appetite for such things as the appetite of the king.
Jon watched even know, from his place at the head of his table as his father tried to turn the king’s
attentions from the serving girl who was serving his wine. It was an admirable effort, but it was
also a futile one. Jon met his father’s gaze and gave him a consoling smile. His father smiled back
tightly, and Jon could sense the anger radiating off of him. If the serving girl wasn’t careful, by
morning she could be looking for work again. After a sharp glance from his father, the girl seemed
to get the message, and left, leaving Robert alone with his boar and ale.

“Your father doesn’t look happy tonight.” A voice said, interrupting his thoughts. Jon turned to see
his Uncle standing before him, clad in thick armour, and thicker furs. His beard was long, and the
tips of his ears were black. Here was his uncle, the feared Benjen Hardstark, Lord of Hardhome
and last surviving Lord-Beyond-The-Wall. Here was the man who fought giants, duelled with
wildlings and battled with the harsh lands he lived in.

“Uncle!” Jon cried in delight as he leapt to his feet. “It has been too long!”
“It has Jon.” Benjen replied with a grin as he wrapped him in a hug. “It has been far too long.”

“What are you doing here?” Jon asked. “Last I heard there were whispers of a new King-Beyond-
The-Wall. Where they false?”

Benjen’s mouth twisted. “No Jon.” He replied. “They were not false. I have come south to speak
with your father and see the king. I have need of troops to defend Hardhome.”

Jon glanced at the king, who was now engaged in a deep conversation with his father. “Then by all
means,” He said, “Do not let me keep you.”

Benjen chuckled drily, before making his way up the dais, where he was greeted by Ned and the
king enthusiastically. Jon laughed at his uncle, before turning around to observe the hall.
Observing was an activity Jon enjoyed. Much could be learned from watching people, and over the
years Jon had gotten very good at it.

For instance, Jon was able to tell that Jamie Lannister was tenser than any other man in the room,
and his eyes kept flicking to the doorways. Jon suspected he was dreading the arrival of Jon’s
uncle, the legendary Arthur Dayne. Arthur was currently hunting bandits in the Wolfswood
though, and would not be back until at least tomorrow. As Jon watched, Rhaenys Targaryen,
disguised as a serving girl in service to his mother approached him and Jamie looked like he had
seen a ghost. In a way he had Jon mused and the irony and humour of the situation was not lost on
him.

Jon could also see that his mother and the queen were playing that strange game that his mother’s
handmaiden’s played sometimes by trying to insult each other by being overly, and insincerely
kind. From the laugh that just burst from his mother’s lips and the scowl that graced the queens,
Jon would have guessed that his mother had just won.

There was Thorin Oakenstark, his short form wrapped in armour, his helm dazzling all with the
brilliance of the Arkenstone and Orcrist strapped to his back. Even though he was a dwarf, he was
one of the most formidable warriors in the North, having learned to turn his weakness into his
strength. He was one of the four guardians of the Wolf Pack, the other’s being Arthur Dayne, Jory
Cassel and Davos Seaworth.

Near the back of the hall, Tyrion Lannister and the GreatJon Umber were engaged in a drinking
game of some sort. Jon had no clue how Tyrion was keeping up with giant lord, but somehow he
was.

Jon sighed and returned his attention to his ale and roast cattle, while around him the Wolf Pack
hollered and hooted.

“What’s with the long face, Stark?” Robb asked from where he had just seated himself at his right
side, in the seat that was always reserved for him.

“I hate southerners.” Jon replied. “And their arrogance is wearing me thin.”

“I hear you brother.” Robb replied, and together they cast their eyes to the high table, where the
Prince dined with their family. His nose seemed to be permanently upturned, and his mouth
permanently downturned.

“What a prick.” Robb muttered, and Jon agreed.

“Where have you been?” Jon asked.

“I was talking with my Great Uncle Brynden. I haven’t seen him since we went to the Saltsmaw
last year.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Not much.” Robb replied, though Jon noticed that his eyes had turned wary. “Though apparently
father has been increasing the numbers of Winter Wolves stationed along the Maw and moving
more wargs south. Uncle Brynden reckons that the number of War Wolves has doubled ever since
Jon Arryn’s death.”

Jon grunted in reply. “Perhaps we shall be marching south soon.”

“Perhaps.” Robb replied, “Though he has also heard word from the sailors that Viserys Targaryen
has begun petitioning the triachs of Volantis to support his claim to the Iron Throne.”

“Interesting.” Jon replied, and Robb nodded. “War is on its way it seems.”

“Who knows?” Robb said, “Soon you may be leading the men south! What an adventure that will
be for you!”

Jon laughed. “I’ll make sure that when it does happen you can lead the defence of Hardhome from
the wildling hordes.”

Robb looked at him in mock horror. “And what of all the unlucky maidens of the south?” He
exclaimed. “Who will be there to pluck their pretty roses for them? The gods know you won’t be!”

“Exactly!” Jon replied with a grin. “We will have to send you someplace where the women know
how to defend their ‘roses’ better. Who knows? You might return with a wildling beauty on your
arm.”

Robb went to laugh, but his smile was replaced with a scowl at a shadow behind Jon. Jon turned to
find the king standing behind him, a smile on his face. “Your grace.” Jon greeted as he rose to his
feet. Around him, his Wolf Pack followed likewise.

The king’s face flushed, though whether it was with embarrassment or anger Jon could not tell.
“Sit, sit.” He muttered, “Don’t make a scene for me.”

Jon obliged, and offered him the seat on his left. Robert sat, and his girth took much of the bench
up. Jon ended up squashed up against Robb, who was simmering in quiet fury.

Robert squinted when he saw the auburn haired youth. “Good gods!” He breathed, “Your Ned’s
bastard!”

Jon’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like it when people called Robb a bastard. This was the North. Those
titles didn’t matter here. Snow or Stark, what difference did it make?

“I am.” Robb responded. It was a lie his father’s spies had spread years ago, in the aftermath of
Rickard’s Rebellion. Many septons of the seven had been preaching against Brandon Stark, his
father, and had called for the entire execution of the Stark line. To protect him, Robb’s uncle had
claimed him as his own so that he could claim that whatever had made Brandon turn into a wolf
did not infect Robb’s blood as well.

“You’ve got the look of your mother don’t you?” The king asked and Jon glared at the king, while
Robb smiled consolingly.
“He has the heart of a Stark, your grace.” Jon said, his tone ice cold, “In the North that’s all that
matters.”

Robert looked taken aback by Jon’s tone for a long, tense second, before a smile burst through his
bushy beard. “You northerners are loyal to your own, aren’t you?”

“We have to be.” Jon replied. “It is either that or die when winter comes.”

Robert frowned as he beheld the serious faces that emerged when Jon mentioned winter. “Gods
you’re a grim lot.” He muttered as he picked up a discarded ale horn. “You’re like your father was
when he was your age.”

Jon interest was piqued. His father rarely spoke about his time with Robert Baratheon in the Vale.
All Jon knew he had learned from rumours and his mother. After his grandfather’s rebellion, his
father had seen red every time someone mentioned the king. And for good reason as well, from
what Jon had heard. Apparently the bear of a man who sat before him had called his mother a
whore and tried to murder him. “Thank you for the compliment, your grace.” Jon said.

Robert took a long swig of the ale from his horn before slamming it back down onto the table. “So
tell me,” He boomed, “tell me of this legendary Wolf Pack Torrhen and Mark were talking up on
the journey here.”

Jon shrugged. “We are raised as brothers. Everything we do, we do together. Yesterday we grew
up together. Today we will fight together. And tomorrow we will die together.”

Around the table, the Wolf Pack, sounded their agreements by banging their cups and horns upon
the table. “Hear, Hear.” Came the call up and down the line.

The king looked on in admiration, before slamming his own cup upon the table. His act was met
with cheers and raucous applause from the Wolf Pack, though Jon noticed that Asher looked put
out at having his ballad interrupted.

“Tell me a story!” the king roared as the noise died down. “Tell me of your life!”

“Shall I tell him of how I got my fine coat?” Asher Forrester cried in delight as he leapt to his feet,
prepared to launch into another stanza of his ballad. Asher’s declaration was met with a round of
jeering and he was pelted with scraps of food. Jon rolled his eyes at Robb good naturedly.

“What’s this?” the king asked, interest flashing across his features.

“Don’t ask.” Jon replied. “Or if you really want to, ask at a time that none of us are present. Not
only did we have the misfortune to be there when it happened, we have since had to put up with
hearing different versions of it half a hundred times.”

Robert grunted and looked around at the joking, laughing group of boys and sighed wistfully. “I
remember when I was living like this. Of course my group of friends wasn’t as large as yours and
we were living in the Eyrie. It was me, your father, Denys and Elbert Arryn and a few other boys.”

Robert drunk from his cup and sadness and melancholy flashed across his features. His gaze was
unseeing, staring off into a place only he could see. “Those were the best days of my life.” He
admitted. “The days were filled with adventure, the nights were filled with laughter.”

Jon grinned at the description. “That sounds a fair bit like my life at the moment.”

“It’s a good way to live.” Robert responded. He looked around, and his expression changed as he
looked at his own son. His lips curled into something that was reminiscent of a sneer, and Jon
watched in interest.

“If only my son lived like this as well.” Robert continued. “Maybe that would fix some of his
problems.”

“Problems?” Jon asked. “Does the boy trouble you?”

“Something is wrong with him.” The king admitted, and Jon wondered how much he had had to
drink. “His mother has sheltered him too much. There is a sickness in him. Some days I wonder
how I ever produced him.”

Jon watched the king warily, before glancing back at the boy. The king took another swig of his
ale, before burping loudly.

“I say!” He exclaimed after a moment of thought. “I’ve had an idea. Do you reckon my son could
foster with you for a little while?”

Jon shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry your grace, but no. I don’t think your son would do
to well serving with the Wolf Pack.”

“Why not?” Robert asked, and Jon wondered if he should continue. After a moment of
deliberation, he decided he would.

“With all due respect your grace, our life is not easy. It’s a life I don’t think your son would be able
to transition into very easily. We have no servants in the Wolf Fort. We have no cooks. We have no
maids. We have no guards. Everything we want and need must be done by ourselves. And if my
father comes to the castle and thinks we have not kept proper care of it, or we fail the random
‘attacks’ by my father’s men, we are thrown out of the castle for a moon and must live in the
Wolfswood. It’s not a life for the faint of heart. Every boy here has been living that way since they
were six years of age.”

“I could command you too.” Robert responded, though his voice sounded despondent.

“You could.” Jon replied, “But I cannot promise that any of my brother’s would accept your
command.”

Robert looked pained. “Would you at least meet with him and consider it?”

Jon hesitated, and the king saw it as indecision. “Please.” He said. “I’m not asking you as a king.
I’m asking you as a father, who worries for his son.”

Jon looked over at the prince, who continued to sneer at those around him. Though his head told
him no, his heart went out to the father that sat beside him and he nodded. “I will talk to him…
though I make no promises that I will allow him to stay.”

Robert’s smile beamed, and for a second Jon saw the handsome, charismatic man that had earned
the moniker of the demon of the Trident, but then he was replaced with the drunken, slovenly king
that took up the bench space next to him.

“Joff!” Robert called, and he waved over the prince when he looked up. Joffrey looked uncertain
for a moment, and Jon wondered how many times Robert had directly spoken to Prince Joffrey.
From the look on Joffrey’s face, Jon was guessing he would be able to count the times on one
hand.
 The sneer disappeared from Joffrey’s face, and he made his way from his seat to where they sat.

“Father.” He greeted Robert.

“Come, come.” Robert said impatiently. “Have a seat.”

Robert turned to Robb. “Move boy!” He snapped. “Make way for your prince.”

Jon stiffened in his seat, and glared at the fat king. “Do not move.” He snapped, when Robb went
to leave.

Robb paused and watched the confrontation between the king and the heir to Winterfell nervously.

Jon turned to the Prince. “Your father wants you to join my Wolf Pack.” He said, “And here is
your first lesson…Joffrey.”

The Prince’s gaze briefly flicked to his father, before he returned it to Jon. He smirked.

Jon glared at the arrogant boy before continuing. “Your titles mean nothing here. No one’s do,
except my father’s and mine. You answer to me and I answer to my father. This king has no
authority over this table or those who sit here.”

Robert’s face swelled in anger and a vein throbbed in the side of his head. Joffrey sneered at Jon
and barked in amusement. “I am the Prince!” He exclaimed, “If I wanted to I could order your
execution upon this very day!”

Jon shot to his feet, and his hand leapt to the hilt of his sword. “You are more than welcome to
try.” Jon replied, his voice low and his eye’s flashing dangerously. “However this is the North. Our
way is the old way. If you want my head, you must take it yourself. I will see you in the training
yard tomorrow at first light.”

With that Jon spat at the Prince’s feet and stepped over the bench, before turning his back and
storming out of the hall, his Wolf Pack following in his wake. Behind him the king returned to his
seat by Lord Stark, while the Prince simmered in fury and embarrassment.

Chapter End Notes

Next up is Tyrion's first chapter

 Tyrion I: The Wolven Storm
Chapter Summary

Joffrey fights Jon.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Five

Tyrion I:

Tyrion was up before the sun had even risen. It was not something he did often, and something he
didn’t think he had ever done the morning after a feast that had gone into the latest hours of the
night. His head pounded from the amount of alcohol he had consumed, but he wouldn’t miss what
was coming for the world.

Soon his haughty nephew would face Jon Stark in the training yard. Tyrion didn’t think he had
been this excited since the day he had awoken to find a cup of the finest arbour gold in his hand
and a very pretty whore with her lips wrapped around his cock. That had been the morning when he
had decided on the way he wanted to die.

Tyrion left his room as the sun first began to peek over the horizon and made his way down to the
stables where one of his men, Jack, had organised a horse for him to ride.

The training yard the Wolf Pack of Winterfell used was located in the Wolf Fort, the home of all
the young heirs of the North. Last night, those boys had been an impressive group of young
warriors. It was clear they were all utterly loyal and devoted to each other, and would have lain
down their lives for one another if asked. Well, that was with the exception of SmallJon Umber and
Brynden Bloodstark. Those two had been glaring daggers at each other the entire night, and Tyrion
was surprised they hadn’t come to blows.

When he reached the stables, he was greeted by a surly prince, and an equally surly brother.
Behind them stood the Hound, his eyes scanning every living being that walked past with such
enmity that he caused one young girl to burst into tears.

“Good Morning!” Tyrion greeted cheerily. “What a beautiful morning this is turning out to be!”

The Hound grunted in response, while Joffrey glared at him. “What are you doing here?” He
asked, looking at Tyrion as if he was as welcome here as a wet shit.

“O sweetest nephew,” Tyrion said as he reached up and rubbed his cheek affectionately, “I’ve
come to see you spar with young Lord Jon.”

Joffrey slapped his hand away and threw one last poisonous glare, before hauling himself onto his
horse and kicking its sides. “Come dog!” He called as he trotted past the Hound, “I have a wolf pelt
to collect!”

The stables and courtyard rang with Joffrey’s laughter as he lauded his own joke. Tyrion refrained
from rolling his eyes and climbed aboard his own horse. The Hound trotted past, and sat just
behind the Prince.

Tyrion and Jamie trotted after them, their horses making their way out of Winterfell and into the
Winter City proper.

Tyrion turned to his brother, who looked as though he hadn’t slept for a week. His cheeks were
sunken, and his hands trembled like leaves in the wind. His skin was as pale as the snow that fell
from the sky, and his eyes were the eyes of a mad-man, darting left and right and haunted.

“Brother?” Tyrion asked. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Jamie replied lowly. “I’m just nervous.”

“Nervous?” Tyrion asked. “Nervous about what?”

“About seeing him again.”

There was no need to ask who he was. There was only one man in the entire world that Jamie cared
enough about to leave him nervous. Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning, and the knight
Jamie squired for. Tyrion knew that Jamie had idolised, and in many ways still did, the famed
knight.

“What if he hates me for what I did?” Jamie asked. “What if he curses me for killing Aerys? What
if he scorns me for staying in the kingsguard, even after Robert took the throne? What if-?

“So many what ifs!” Tyrion interrupted. “What if the sky fell on our head? What if the whores all
disappeared? What if the Others returned?”

“But what if he hates me?” Jamie asked. “I don’t know if I could bear it! My whole life he is who
I’ve looked up to, and who I have always strived to be! Now today, I find out if he still sees me as
the boy who squired for him, or the man that killed the king he had sworn to protect?”

Tyrion looked at his brother sadly. It was strange seeing Jamie like this. For years he had worn his
arrogance as an armour, and a possibility of meeting one man had stripped all that arrogance away.
Left behind was the shell of a traumatised and insecure man, who struggled with the choices of the
past.

“It doesn’t matter what he sees you as.” Tyrion said. “Does it change the past? Does it change what
you have done? Does it change anything? You are still a Lannister of Casterly Rock and a knight of
the kingsguard. You are still my brother. We are both lions. By what right does the sheep judge the
lion?”

“But-“

“No!” Tyrion said firmly. “There is no buts. What did Rickard Stark tell you?”

Jamie looked away, his eyes unseeing. Tyrion knew of the massive amount of respect Jamie had
for The Burnt Lord, a respect that Rickard Stark had earned on the day his forces had taken King’s
Landing.

“He said I was the truest knight of the kingsguard.”

“And?”
“And that I had more honour than any of the other kingsguard. He said to wear what I have done
with pride.”

“Then wear it with pride.” Tyrion said. “Make it your armour and don’t let anyone know how
much it hurts you, especially not him.”

Jamie smiled at him weakly. “That sounds like something father would say.”

“Hear me roar.” Tyrion replied drily.

“Hear me roar.” Jamie affirmed.

They rode the rest of the way in silence and Tyrion took the opportunity to admire the city around
him. The Winter City truly was one of the most beautiful and unique cities in the world. On the
side of the street stood a great Brown Bear, its vital regions covered by light steel plate, while upon
its head sat a monstrous war helm. In the sky eagles flitted to and fro, and occasionally dived into
the city to retrieve or accost someone.

The buildings themselves were made out of oak and stone, and sturdily built. The grey stone and
white snow caused the entire city to have a wintry feel about it, and when the sun peeked through
the clouds the entire city sparkled.

The banners of House Stark hung from every streets sign and well, letting all know of who owned
this great domain. The people were busy, and the children were happy while the shops were filled
with food and the houses with people.

And perhaps most amazingly of all, the air smelt enchanting, a strange mix of pine needles and
snow with the tiniest hint of smoke.

They soon came to the Wolf Fort and Tyrion noted with interest that the guards at the gates were
some of the boys who had been present at the feast last night. Neither could have been older than
sixteen, yet both were as ramrod straight and as attentive as that of a man who had been a guard for
forty years. Their gilded bronze spears and armour glinted in the early morning light, and when
their party went to cross the boys moved in unison to block their way.

“Halt.” One said. “Who goes there?”

Joffrey, gods bless his arrogant soul, sneered at them, before turning to The Hound. “Get these
fools out of my way.”

The Hound nodded, and swung from his horse before placing on his dogs head helm and drawing
his great sword. To the boys’ credit, neither flinched nor shirked in their duty.

“I’ll give you one chance to move out of our way.” The Hound growled, but the boys shook their
heads.

“Tell us of who you are and we will arrange to have a guard escort you.”

“Do you know who I am?” Joffrey exclaimed in disbelief.

The boys glanced at each other. “Someone who thinks he’s above the laws of this city.” The one
on the left replied.

“I am above the laws of this land!” Joffrey replied angrily. “Move them at once dog! I have a
meeting to make and I don’t want to be late!”
“It’s alright!” A voice called, and from within the fort Robb Snow strode out. “These men are
expected Harrion.”

The one on the left, Harrion, squinted at them suspiciously, before turning to Robb. “If you say
so.” He replied, before bringing up his spear and stepping aside. His fellow guard did the same, and
Robb strode out to greet them.

“I apologise most profusely to all of you.” Robb Snow said, “But my guards take their duties very
seriously. If you had have been sent here by my father we would have been spending the next
month in the Wolfswood.”

Tyrion nodded in acceptance. He had overhead Jon Stark telling the king of life in the Wolf Fort
last night, but the others didn’t care. Joffrey had already ridden on, and The Hound, the ever loyal
dog was again following him.

“No offence was taken.” Tyrion replied for all of them as they moved on towards the training yard.
Already Tyrion could hear the clash of steel on steel and the shouts and grunts of fighting men.

The courtyard was filled with the northern boys they called the Wolf Pack, some 150 strong. Most
of them Tyrion had no clue of their identity, but a few stood out. Jon Stark, their leader, and Robb
Snow were the ones Tyrion knew of best, but he also saw the sigils of Houses Umber, Hornwood
and Karstark as well as all the different variations of the Stark direwolf, from grey ones that ran on
a blood red field, to grey heads that graced a sea blue field.

It was the men in the centre of the courtyard though that drew Tyrion’s attention. Arthur Dayne
stood next to Thorin Oakenstark and watched as Jon Stark duelled a boy in a bull headed helm.
Tyrion racked his brains for a northern house that took a bull for its sigil, yet none sprung to mind.
Neither of them held anything back, and Tyrion almost burst out into laughter at the look upon
Joffrey’s face. These were two skilled fighters. Jon Stark fought with a blunted practice blade,
while the boy in the bull headed helm fought with a monstrous war hammer that rivalled even King
Robert’s.

“Keep your shield up Gendry!” Arthur Dayne called as Jon Stark managed to slip past the boy,
Gendry’s, guard. Gendry stepped back from Jon’s strike before swinging his hammer at Jon’s own
shield. Jon Stark tried to twist away, and the hammer caught him square in his padded gambeson.

To Tyrion’s amazement Jon Stark was literally thrown backwards from the force of the blow. He
was lifted off his feet and sailed through the air for a good few feet, before crashing back down to
the ground.

Tyrion stared at Gendry in bewilderment. To throw a man into the air with a swing of his hammer
was a feat of strength that was frankly, almost unheard of. Robert had boasted of doing it, but
Tyrion had never met a man to corroborate these tales, and indeed Ser Barristan had flat out denied
that he had done it at the Trident with one of the Darry brothers.

Gendry grunted in satisfaction while Arthur Dayne made his way over to his nephew and hauled
him to his feet. “Stupid boy.” He muttered at Jon. “What were you thinking?”

He slapped him lightly across the back of the head. “Don’t ever let me catch you doing that again.”

Jon Stark nodded in agreement and reached up and removed his helm. His hair was soaked with
sweat and his cheeks were flushed. Across the yard, Gendry did likewise and Tyrion’s heart
stopped in his chest. He felt the blood rush from his face, and suddenly he understood where this
boy’s skill with a Warhammer and legendary strength came from.
There was no doubting who he was. With those blue eyes and that black hair he was a dead ringer
for Robert Baratheon 20 years ago. Not that Tyrion had seen him. But he could imagine.

A glance sideways confirmed it. Jamie knew who it was too. Father was going to be furious when
he found out and Cersei would be apoplectic. By the grace of the seven Joffrey did not have the
sense to put two and two together and was oblivious to the identity of the man who stood ten
meters to in front of him. Instead he stepped forward into the yard, announcing their presence for
the entire Wolf Pack to see and hear.

Jon Stark stepped away from his uncle, his practice sword resting at his side. “Prince Joffrey.” He
greeted, but tellingly he did not bow, or even dip his head. This action however, did not go
unnoticed by Joffrey. He always was quick to sense a slight.

“It is customary to bow before your prince.”

Jon Stark smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes were still pits of dark grey ice, burning
through Joffrey. Around him the Wolf Pack of Winterfell whispered amongst one another and
glared daggers at the Prince.

“It is customary to bow before your King.” Jon replied. “Not your prince. At least in the North that
is. In the North a man must earn the right to be bowed to.”

Joffrey looked around him at the faces that glared at him, before stepping forth into the ring. “Well
then.” He said. “If it takes a beating to make you bend the knee, then so be it.”

Tyrion didn’t know whether to laud Joffrey for his courage or laugh at him for his stupidity. Jon
gestured at Gendry and he left the ring, and took his place by the other boys of the Pack.

“Well then.” Jon replied. “Shall we begin?”

Joffrey nodded his assent and Thorin Oakenstark appeared at his side carrying a padded gambeson
and blunted sword.

Joffrey looked down at the dwarf lord in disgust. “A dwarf?” He sneered. “Is this an insult or just a
bad joke?”

Tyrion’s eyes widened in horror. For years all he wanted to do was meet with Thorin Oakenstark.
From a young age, Tyrion had idolised House Oakenstark, particularly the tales he had heard of
Thorin. They said he was a warrior without peer, one who hadn’t let his diminutive size hinder his
ability to wield his family’s ancestral Valyrian Steel blade, Orcrist.

Tyrion had once thought he had could become the next Thorin Oakenstark, until the day his father
had flatly refused to allow the Master of Arms of Casterly Rock to teach him how to wield a
sword. Tyrion’s heart had been shattered that day. He could still remember his father’s scathing
rebuke of Tyrion’s dreams to wield a sword.

It almost hurt as much as it had to lose Tysha.

And now, because of one foolish boy and his loud mouth, Tyrion’s chance at meeting his idol may
have just gone with the wind. Tyrion resisted the urge to march into the ring and slap the arrogant
whoreson across his mouth. Hopefully he would knock some sense into Joffrey’s brain, but he
doubted it. It seemed he had inherited his mother’s penchant for stupidity and cruelty.

Jon Stark looked at the Prince coolly, before turning to his uncle. “Go and assist the Prince.”
Arthur Dayne looked as though he had just been asked to kill a newborn babe. A battle of wills
erupted between uncle and nephew, but in the end the Heir to Winterfell won and Arthur Dayne
was striding across to Joffrey with a look of such intense loathing and hatred on his face, that
Tyrion felt slightly disconcerted.

Arthur Dayne assisted Joffrey in readying himself for the spar, though he was none to gentle in the
process. Thorin Oakenstar meanwhile, went and helped Jon Stark. Soon both were ready, and
stepped forward, directly across from each other.

Jon nodded once at Joffrey before slamming down the visor of his helm, and hefting his sword and
shield. Joffrey did likewise, though his sword wavered in the air. It was clear that this was not an
activity that Joffrey was accustomed to.

“Begin.” Arthur Dayne barked, and almost immediately Jon Stark went on the offensive.

He swung his practice sword in an overhead arc towards Joffrey’s head. Through sheer dumb luck,
Joffrey somehow managed to catch the blow upon his blade. Then Joffrey swung his own blade,
but Jon knocked it aside almost contemptuously, before launching back, and driving Joffrey across
the yard with a series of sweeps, swings and shoves.

Jon Stark pushed Joffrey right to the wall of men that surrounded them before deciding to finish it.
With an elaborate twist of his blade, Joffrey’s was wrenched from his grasp and landed a few feet
away. But Jon Stark wasn’t finished.

Next he slipped his own blade past Joffrey’s shield, before tripping him with one of his feet, before
catching him with his arms.

When all the movement was said and done, Joffrey found himself on one knee before the Heir of
Winterfell. For a long, tense second Jon stared at the young prince before finally releasing him and
stepping back.

Joffrey’s face flushed as he realised the position he was in. He sprung to his feet. “This is a game
for children.” He said. “Let us fight like real men. Let us fight with live steel.”

Jon Stark looked amused before glancing at Arthur Dayne. Arthur Dayne was glaring upon Prince
Joffrey with a look of hate so intense it was slightly disturbing. He nodded once and Jon Stark drew
his own blade.

Tyrion gasped in shock and awe of the blade that he wielded. It was Starsteel, the same material
that Arthur Dayne’s Dawn was forged of. It was clearly not Dawn though as Dawn was currently
strapped to Arthur Dayne’s side.

Jon Stark’s blade was plain, but it was beautiful. The handle of the blade was wrapped in white
leather, while the crossguard and pommel were composed of bronze coated steel. The scabbard
was comprised of Weirwood and white leather while a bronze filigree capped the top and bottom.

“Behold,” Robb Snow called as he stirred from where he lounged against a wall, “Snowfall, the
blade of Winterfell, the blade of the heir.”

All Tyrion could think about was how jealous their father was going to be when he found out that
the Stark’s had another Starsteel blade in their possession. Their father had complained constantly
about the blade of Roderick Walton, though Tyrion was yet to meet this mysterious and interesting
figure, or see the blade that he had heard so much of.

Joffrey blanched a bit, and stepped back, but Jon Stark was upon him. Almost lazily, he swung his
blade up, past Joffrey’s guard and across his cheek. The cut was shallow, but it bled well. It would
scar one day no doubt.

The whole exchange lasted less than three seconds.

Joffrey stumbled away and dropped his sword at his feet, before clutching his cheek tenderly.
“You cut me!” He exclaimed.

“You asked for live steel.” Jon Stark replied. “I gave you live steel.”

“If you were not prepared to be cut boy” Arthur Dayne spat, “You should not have entered the
ring.”

Joffrey drew himself up to his full height. “I am the Crown Prince!” He cried as he stamped his
foot. “You can’t talk to me like that!”

Arthur just glared at the boy before sneering and turning his back on him. To Tyrion’s horror,
Jamie stepped forward.

“I am prepared to be cut.” Jamie called after Arthur Dayne. “I will fight you, Ser Arthur!”

“No.” Arthur Dayne replied without turning around.

“Please Arthur!” Jamie exclaimed as he stepped forward and drew his sword. “For old times’ sake!
As a nod to the days when I was just squire. The master against the apprentice.”

“Not a day goes by that I don’t curse myself for taking you on as my squire.” Arthur said with
posion in his voice and Jamie stepped back, the shock evident on his face. Arthur glared at
Tyrion’s brother, before spitting at his feet. Jamie paled and stepped back. He swallowed audibly,
before his arrogance came rushing back and he turned to Jon Stark. “What of you, Lord Jon?
Would you like to spar?”

“No.” Arthur called out. “You will not spar in this courtyard. I will not have your blade profaning
the place where I teach my nephews how to swing their swords.”

Jamie nodded stiffly, before turning and marching away, Joffrey trotting after him, and the Hound
trotting after him. All such loyal dogs.

Tyrion went to follow, but he felt a hand upon his arm. He looked up into the cool, grey gaze of
Jon Stark who had Thorin Oakenstark standing next to him.

“Lord Tyrion.” Jon greeted, “As I promised you at the feast last night, here is Lord Thorin
Oakenstark.”

Tyrion glanced the man up and down and he was impressed with what he saw. A plaited black
beard hung down his face and his blue eyes sparkled with life. He was a little bit taller than Tyrion,
though not by much. The famed blade Orcrist hung on his back, while he was wrapped in leather
and chainmail armour. On his head rested the helm that was set with the brilliant Arkenstone, the
crown jewel so to speak, of the Oakenshield mines.

“Lord Tyrion.” Thorin Oakenshield greeted. “It is a pleasure to meet another dwarf lord like me.”

Tyrion’s mind raced as he thought of the opportunities that this friendship could bring. A dwrven
warrior and a dwarven scholar. Together they would be a formidable team. And both had more
money than they knew what to do with. Just like Tyrion had more ideas than he knew what to do
 with.

Chapter End Notes

Next chapter is Jamie. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think!
 Jamie I: White Wings, White Eyes.
Chapter Summary

Jamie Storms off.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Jamie stormed away from the courtyard, his heart thundering in his chest. To his despair, he could
feel tears pooling in the sides of his eyes. What had he become to feel like this? Since when had
the opinion of one man mattered so much? Since when had the lion cared for the opinions of
sheep?

Behind him Joffrey and the Hound wandered off somewhere else, and Jamie’s feet led him, his
mind unaware of where he was going. To his horror, his feet led him straight to The Black Bat, Ser
Oswell Whent. He bumped into him unawares, and only realising who he had hit when he lifted his
gaze and saw the bat helm that sat upon his old sworn brother’s head.

“Ser Jamie.” Oswel Whent greeted calmly.

“Ser Oswell.” Jamie replied.

“Not anymore.” Oswell Whent replied with a bitter smile.

“What do you mean?” Jamie asked, confused.

“I’m no ser anymore. The High Septon stripped Arthur and I of our knightly oaths.”

“He did?” Jamie asked, surprised. He hadn’t heard that news. The last he had seen or heard of
either of them was when they had left King’s Landing in Lord Stark’s retinue sixteen years ago.
“When?”

Oswell Whent shrugged. “Got the letter a few years ago. To be honest Arthur doesn’t care that
much. He’s almost a Northerner nowadays.”

“Yes.” Jamie replied, the thoughts of Arthur Dayne bitter on his mind. “I seemed to notice he hates
me as much as all these other Northerners.”

Oswell Whent shrugged. “If it makes you feel any better I hate you too and I’m not almost a
Northerner. I’m still a southerner.”

Jamie’s lip curled. “Why?” He asked. “Why do you and Arthur hate me for killing the Mad King?”

Oswell Whent smirked at him and Jamie resisted the urge to wipe the smirk from his face with the
sword that rested at his side. “You think we hate you for killing the Mad King?”

“What else have I done to deserve your loathing?” Jamie asked.

“Arthur and I don’t hate you for killing the Mad King. Arthur has said himself that if he was in
your position he would have killed Aerys too. So would have I. I think I would have enjoyed it
too.”

“So why do you hate me then?”

“Tell me Ser Jamie,” Oswell Whent said. “While you were killing Aerys what was happening to
Elia Martell and her children? Who had Rhaegar left to protect them?”

“Me.” Ser Jamie whispered.

“You.” Oswell Whent exclaimed as he stabbed Jamie with the point of his finger. “You were left to
protect them and instead they ended up dead. We don’t hate you for failing to fulfil your duties to
Aerys. We hate you for failing to fulfil your oaths to Elia Martell and her children. We hate you
even more for the traitor’s name that you bear.”

With a last look of disgust, Oswell Whent turned around and left Jamie alone with his thoughts.

Jamie stormed into his sister’s chambers in a rage. Where was Jamie on the day that Elia was
killed? Where the fuck had Arthur been!

Almost immediately his sister emerged from behind the partition and noted the troubled look in his
gaze.

“What’s wrong?” She asked as she reached for the wine.

“Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent!” Jamie spat. Jamie paced back and forth upon the fur covered
floor.

“Don’t worry about them.” Cersei said as she came closer, her dress slipping, revealing her breasts.
“Worry about me.” She said as she pushed him down into a chair. She claimed his lips with hers,
and his hands fumbled at her chest and back as he tried to remove her dress.

Their dance took them away from the chair and across to Cersei’s featherbed. They tumbled down
into its softness, both as naked as newborns.

Cersei flipped him over so that she was on top and that was when he first saw the White Raven that
sat in the rafters, peering down at them.

“Fuck!” Jamie cried as he shoved Cersei off him roughly. She tumbled onto the stone floor with a
small scream and Jamie scrambled to wrap the furs around himself.

“What the fuck was that for?” Cersei asked as she clambered to her feet and glared daggers at him.

“Pass me my sword!” Jamie cried as he pulled his breeches on. “Quick!”

“Why?” Cersei asked and Jamie rushed past her to seize his own sword. Without responding he ran
after the White Raven, who flitted from rafter to rafter in an attempt to get away the bite of Jamie’s
sword.
Cersei screamed when she saw it knowing what it meant, who it heralded. Only the Stark’s had
White Ravens. Briefly Jamie wondered who’s raven this one was.

As if in answer, the bird soared past Cersei and out the window. Jamie rushed across to follow it,
and saw a lone figure waiting in the courtyard below. The bird alighted on the figure’s shoulder
and Jamie rushed to the doorway, determined to kill whoever it was before they could put any of
his blood in danger. In his haste he had forgotten to put on his clothes and only wore breeches.

He rushed down the steps, his naked blade gleaming in the sun. He emerged from the tower and
saw the figure sitting down on a log, waiting for him it seemed.

Jamie rushed over and was surprised to see the youngest Stark, Alaric. Sitting in front of him,
calmly preening the White Raven’s feathers.

Jamie paused as he reached him, and glanced around. No one was near. He could kill him and no
one would be any the wiser. Who would know?

“Alaric!” Someone called and Jamie nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Ser Jamie?” The same voice asked and Jamie turned to see Ashara Dayne staring at him in
bewilderment. “What are you doing?”

Two of them. No one was near. He could kill them both and no one would by any the wiser. Who
would know?

“Ashara?” Eddard Stark asked as he emerged from around the corner. He baulked when he noticed
Jamie’s naked torso. “What is Ser Jamie doing?”

“Just leaving.” Jamie replied as he levelled one last glare at the child. The child smirked at him
before skipping over to its mother, and tugging on her hand. She leant down and he whispered in
Ashara Dayne’s ear.

She listened to the small boy intently, before a look of bemusement flitted across her features.
Jamie’s heart stopped in his chest. He looked at Eddard Stark and wondered how he would go in a
fight with him. He noted the length of Ice that sat strapped to Ned Stark’s back. This was the man
who had beaten Randyll Tarly at the God’s Eye and then captured Rhaegar. A formidable warrior
to be sure. Was he better than Jamie?

There was only one way to find out. Jamie breathed in and prepared to fight.

“I’m so sorry.” Ashara said to Jamie as she shook her head at Alaric, before extracting something
from his grasp. It was his ring, the one his father had given him. She held it out for him to take and
Jamie stared at the boy in shock. What had he told his mother?

“Alaric should never have taken this.” Ashara explained. “His Raven though has taken a likeliness
to shiny things. I fear your ring is just the latest in a long line of victims.”

Jamie paused and looked at the boy, who smirked up at him. He patted the head of the raven on his
shoulder, before making a smooching face at Jamie.

Jamie reached out and took the ring, all while glaring at the six year old.

Then he turned around and stormed away, furious at the boy who had found them out. Hopefully
he didn’t realise what he had seen until Jamie had a chance to kill him.
Chapter End Notes

Next chapter is Ned. Please leave me a comment and tell me what you think.
 Ned II: The coming and going of Kings
Chapter Summary

Robert leaves Winterfell.

Chapter Notes

Leave a comment and tell me what you think! I'm pretty certain we have now passed
the point where I left off in what I originally wrote, so tell me what you think of the
new developments.

Eddard Stark walked through the halls of his home towards the chambers where the King of the
Seven Kingdoms had spent the last month of his life. It had been painful and awkward to be sure,
and everyone seemed to be aware of the awkwardness except for the king himself, who was either
blissfully ignorant or roaring drunk.

Truth be told, Ned had once been as blind as Robert. It was only in the later years of his life, under
his wife’s careful tutelage that he learned to read the people that hid behind the masks. Ashara had
learned in the Viper’s nest of King’s Landing itself, when Aerys yet sat on the throne and Rhaegar
was still a man.

Ned approached the door to the King’s chambers now, and found his old friend guarding it. Mark
Ryswell, the White Knight of the North, glanced his way as he approached, but he was otherwise
as still as a statue.

Ned slipped past him, and Mark didn’t respond. Ned knew where Mark’s true loyalties lay, and it
wasn’t with Robert. It saddened him to have to stoop to such levels, especially against the man he
had once considered a brother, but it was the reality of the situation he faced. In his role as Lord of
Winterfell, Warden of the North and Watcher of the White Wolf he had no room for
sentimentality.

Especially as the Watcher of the White Wolf. The Stark’s had been preparing for the arrival of the
White Wolf for 300 years in just a few moons. Ned would not be the first of his kin to fail in their
ancient and sacred oaths.

As he entered the room the first thing he noticed was the smell. It hung in the air like a perfume, a
stench of booze, sweat and sex. From within he heard the sounds of flesh slapping flesh, and he
wondered what he had walked into.

Ned had seen worse though. Ned had been present at the Massacre of God’s Eye, when the waters
were stained red with the blood of the slain. When the corpses of the Reachmen were feasted upon
by wild and warged wolves alike. When the stench of death hung in the air so thickly, that a man
could scarcely breathe.

“Robert.” Ned said calmly as he walked into the room. “We need to talk.”
“Ned?!” Robert cried, when he noticed his presence. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.” Ned repeated. “Now. And alone.”

A quick, cool glance and the whore got the message. She slid off the fur laden bed and slipped into
her silken dress. Within seconds she was gone, leaving the king unsatisfied upon the bed.

But she knew what the king did not. This was the domain of the Wolves of Winterfell. Southern
Kings held no sway here.

“What about?” Robert asked as he swung from the bed and swung on a heavy bear-fur cloak.

“I have come to a decision.”

“Excellent!” Robert exclaimed. “And?”

“No, you’re Grace.”

“No?” Robert asked.

“No.” Ned affirmed. “I will not be coming south with you.”

“And why not?” Robert asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Ned felt a tinge of fear run through him. The last time he had heard Robert speak like that was the
day before he had charged alone down the banks of the Trident to fight Rhaegar and his entourage
in one on one combat. Robert may have been fat, drunk and a whoremonger, but there was still
remnants of the warrior he once was hidden away in there somewhere.

“I cannot, my king. I have far too many duties in the North.”

“No!” Robert roared, and his fury showed through. “No! I travel all this way from King’s Landing
to offer you the most powerful position in the realm and a betrothal with the crown prince and you
doubly insult me by saying no to both?”

“I apologise most profusely-“

“I don’t want your fucking apologies!” Robert yelled. “I want you to be Hand of the King!”

“I can’t manage it Robert.” Ned beseeched, trying to calm the furious man down. “I am Warden of
the North and Lord of Winterfell. The North is as prosperous as the south. How do you expect me
to manage both?”

“Cregan Stark managed it for Aegon the Dragonbane.” Robert retorted.

“Cregan Stark served Aegon the Oathbreaker for six days.” Ned replied. In the North the memory
of why Cregan had been given those six days still rankled. And it was why the man they called
Dragonsbane in the south was known as Oathbreaker in the North.

“That’s still six more days than you are giving me!”

Ned stayed silent, unsure of how to continue.

“Stupid fool…” Robert muttered. “What could I expect of the man who broke his oaths to House
Tully. Of course he would break it for his king as well…”
Ned clenched his jaw. “I warn you now Robert, if you value our relationship in any way you will
stop this conversation right now.”

“No!” Robert roared. “I came here for a Hand and a betrothal and I leave with neither! 16 years
ago your father robbed me blind! In the south I’m still mocked for that fucking treaty! I won’t be
robbed by a Stark ever again…give me you or one of your daughters. Until such a time I’m not
leaving the North.”

As if to prove his point, Robert sat down heavily upon the oaken seat that sat next to the fireplace.

Ned stared at him for a long time, before turning to the window. Outside the summer snows were
falling, while in the courtyard Arya and Dyanna were having a snowball fight with Artos. Arya
spun around, and just for a fleeting second, the light hit her the right way and he saw Lyanna again.

He saw her laughing as Brandon pelted her with snowballs. He saw her laughing as she rode along
the Kingsroad towards the tourney of Harrenhall. He saw her crying as Rhaegar sung his sad songs.
He saw her dying upon a bed of blood, pain in her features and sorrow in her eyes.

It was then he knew. He would never willingly send any of his children south ever. The only time a
Stark of Winterfell would be going south would be at the head of an army 140,000 strong with a
White Wolf running before them.

Ned had broken the Bloody Accords enough for one lifetime. He had no wish to break them again.
But he had a king that left him no choice. What was he to do? Sacrifice his honour for his children
or his children for his honour?

“Please Ned,” Robert begged, his voice softer than Ned had heard it in a long time. “I have need of
you down south. I don’t know what I’m doing. The realm has gone to shit Ned. I need you. I’m not
asking you as your king, I’m asking you as the brothers we once were.”

In the end the decision was easy. Ned would have given anything for his children, even his life if
the gods demanded it of him.

“Six days.”

“Six days?” Robert asked.

“Cregan gave the Oathbreaker six days. That is how many days I will give you.”

“I want you for more than that Ned.”

“Well that is all you’re getting. Be content with six or have none.”

Robert looked torn.

“There are conditions as well.” Ned continued.

“Conditions?” Robert asked, “What conditions?”

“You will leave tomorrow at first light.”

“Tomorrow?” Robert exclaimed. “Whatever for?”

“You will prepare the realm for my coming. I have no intention of staying in the south for any
longer than I need too.”
“What do you need me to prepare?”

“Tonight you will go and visit with Maester Luwin. You will send a raven to every Lord
Paramount, summoning them to King’s Landing. I want Tywin Lannister, Mace Tyrell, Balon
Greyjoy and Lysa Arryn there in person. The rest of them can send representatives.”

“They won’t like that.”

“Then command them too as the king they have sworn fealty to. Tell them that any who does not
come will be stipped of all their lands and titles. That should bring most of them running.”

“Lysa and Balon won’t come for anything. The Iron Islands have been simmering on the brink of
war ever since the end of your father’s rebellion.”

That was something that Ned knew well. He still shuddered to think of the deal he had made with
Balon to keep them from rebelling. It still haunted his waking hours. “Leave Lysa and Balon to
me.”

“I warn you Ned, she’s gone mad since her husband died. From what Varys said she’s holed
herself up in the Eyrie and refuses to come down for anything.”

“You might find Robert that the right word in the right places can get you anything.”

Robert shrugged and poured himself a cup of ale.

“I also want your whole small council present when I arrive. Including Stannis.”

Robert shook his head. “Impossible. Stannis has done the same as Lysa and run off to his island
fortress. He’s become frightened of shadows. Good riddance I say.”

Ned found it hard to imagine what could frighten Stannis Baratheon, who had once held Storm's
End through a year of siege, surviving on rats and boot leather while the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne
sat outside with their hosts, banqueting in sight of his walls. “He will come regardless of how
scared he is of the shadows. As his king you will order it of him. Even if you have to go to
Dragonstone yourself. I want him there. Get him there. Am I clear?”

Robert nodded. “I will do my best.”

“No.” Ned replied. “You will do better. If I get down to King’s Landing and even one of the
people I’ve asked for isn’t there I will turn around and march straight back to Winterfell without
even bothering to ask why.”

“Is there anything else?” Robert asked.

“Yes.” Ned replied. “When I am Hand of the King my word is law Robert. Not even yours will be
able to overrule me. I don’t want to have to worry about you putting the realm back to shit once
I’ve come back to Winterfell.”

Robert shrugged. “If Jon was still alive, he could tell you that I don’t care either way. As long as
you leave me my whores and my wine, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not though.”

“You’re not?!”

“No.” Ned said. “If you want me to be your Hand you won’t touch wine or whores from this day
forth. Try sleeping with your wife for once.”

Robert snorted. “You serious?” He scoffed. “I’ve tried. The ways she guards her cunt you would
think all the gold of Casterly Rock is hidden there.”

“Try regardless. If she say no, go and come back the next day. Persist until she says yes. You need
more children Robert. You can’t build a dynasty off two sons and one daughter.”

“The Targaryen’s did it with one son and two daughters.” Robert replied.

“And the Targaryen’s are gone. They were here for not even 300 years. To House Stark the
dragons were no more than dust upon the wind. Unless you want your crown to suffer the same
fate you will have more children.”

“I will try.” Robert conceded.

“Good.” Ned said, before sighing. “Gods Robert, where did it all go wrong?”

“When we left the Vale.” Robert replied.

“No,” Ned disagreed. “It was before that.”

Robert paused, and his eyes filled with grief. “When the smiles died.”

“Aye.” Ned agreed. “When the smiles died.”

“Remember Robert. First light tomorrow.”

Robert grunted and Ned walked to the door. He was almost through it when he was stopped.

“Ned.” Robert said, his voice filled with remembered grief. “What of the betrothal?”

“No.” Ned said firmly. “On that there is no negotiation.”’

“Please. For the love I bore your sister. Give me this one thing.”

Ned sighed. “No.” he finally replied. “I will have nothing to do with that child.”

“Give me something goddammit Ned! I can’t go south until you have given me something. If the
other Lords knew how much you have defied me the last semblances of my authority would be
gone.”

“I can’t send any of my children south Robert. Surely you would understand why.”

“I get it Ned but-“

“That doesn’t mean you can’t leave one of yours.” Ned interrupted. “Just don’t leave Joffrey.”

True to his word, Robert left at first light the next day. The servants had been rushing around into
the latest hours of last night and finalising things even now.
It hadn’t been fair of Ned to demand them to leave with such short notice, but then again it hadn’t
been fair of Robert to demand for Ned to be his Hand of the King.

Ned rode beside Robert as they passed through the Winter City. The last promise that Robert had
managed to extract of him was that he would escort the king to the cities limits.

The ride through the city was largely uneventful. In the last month, the residents of the city had
largely become accustomed to the royal retinues visit. It had very quickly lost its appeal, and now
only the youngest children came out to watch them ride past.

They passed through, and before Ned knew it they came to the city gates. He turned to Robert who
had stopped.

“Well I guess this is goodbye then.” Ned said.

“Only for a little while.” Robert replied. “I’ll see you in a moon’s time in King’s Landing.”

Around them the rest of the Royal Retinue continued through the gates, save two.

“What am I meant to do once you’re gone Ned?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Ned replied. “I want nothing to do with whatever madness
follows.”

Robert sighed. “I’m going to miss you Ned. This last month has been one of the best of my life.”

If only Ned could say the same.

Behind them they heard wailing, and Ned supressed a smile. This was just another reason why Ned
was glad he was not travelling with the king’s retinue.

If Robert had been upset at having to leave Winterfell, and on the terms Ned had demanded of
him, Cersei Lannister had been outright furious. She had simmered in icy fury when Robert had
told her that Ned had refused his demands for a betrothal and wailed and wept for hours when they
had announced that Tommen was to be kept in the North, officially to serve as Ned’s squire.

“Tommen!” She cried, “Tommen!”

Tommen though rode on a shaggy pony next to Artos, Alaric and Jon.

“Stop your wailing woman for god’s sake!” Robert suddenly roared.

Tommen and Ned’s sons came to a stop next to them, and Ned greeted them all with a nod of the
head.

Together they watched as the last of the retinue rode through the gates. Robert sighed, and turned
to his youngest son.

He seemed on the verge of saying something meaningful before nodding his head and turning his
horse. “Be good.” Were his last words, and then he was gone.

Ned turned back around, and beheld the other man who had remained behind. Tyrion Lannister
had decided to remain behind however, having a desire to see the Wall. Ned nodded at him too,
and then Lannister and Stark rode back to Winterfell.
 Jon II: The High Council
Chapter Summary

The High Council of the North is called to order. A good boi shows up too.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Jon watched as his lord father called the meeting of the Northern High Council to order. Present
we’re all the lords and individuals in the North who held the positions of power. Within this room
were the men who could make and break entire kingdoms. These were the men who managed the
North’s finances, trained their troops and guarded their borders. These were the men that Lord
Eddard Stark had handpicked to run the North, and all of them were the best at what they did.

Jon sat by his father’s right hand at the head of the table. On his father’s left sat Maester Luwin
who would record the meeting for the archives that were housed in the library of Winterfell.

Down below them sat the nine men that served the Northern Realms. In front of Jon sat the Master
of Coin, Lord Wyman Manderly. Lord Manderly had served the North in such a way since before
Rickard’s Rebellion. He was a man of enormous appetites, but behind those rolls of fat and insipid
smile sat an incredibly cunning and intelligent man. It took such a man to run the massive trade
empire that the Stark’s controlled, as well as managing the finances of the North.

Next to the Master of Coin sat the first southerner to ever sit on the Northern High Council. His
appointment had stirred much controversy at the time, but after Ser Brynden Tully had proven
himself as Master of the Moat his critics became much less vocal. Brynden Tully sat with Beron
Saltstark, the Lord Admiral of the Northern Fleets. The two men were close friends; their positions
in the North meant that they often spent time together. The most powerful ships of the Northern
fleet were stationed at the Underground docks of Moat Cailin.

On the other side of the table Rodrick Walton sat, his form wrapped in his trademark armour and
his famous blade resting on his back. He was the man who needed no introduction no matter where
he walked. Rickards Rebellion has made into one of the most feared men in Westeros and Jon
knew from firsthand experience where this fear came from.

Next to Rodrick was a man who was not as well known, but should have been as much, if not more
feared. Bowen Blackmyre was a diminutive crannogman, but he was a powerful and skilled warg.
It was for this reason that he had been named the Warden of Wargs, and he was responsible for
policing the way wargs used their animals as well as fighting the White Eye. When the North went
to war, he would also be the one in charge of their famed warg legions.

The final man on that side of the table had only arrived in Winterfell last night, and his presence
was not a good omen. Ethan Glover had left to travel the world with Jon’s grandfather, Rickard
Stark, fourteen years ago. Nowadays he acted as Rickard Stark’s representative the world over. No
one had seen nor heard from Rickard Stark in four years, however Ethan Glover dropped in from
time to time to share news of his grandfather or bring Jon, Robb and Gendry to him.

The last time Jon has seen his grandfather was four years ago in Braavos. Ethan Glover was their
unofficial Master of Eyes, since their official one, his grandfather, was never here.

At the end of the table sat the final two members of the High Council. GreatJon Umber, The
Warden of War and Benjen Hardstark, the feared Lord-Beyond the wall and Jon’s uncle.

Both were also incredibly skilled fighters, and Jon knew no better brawler than the GreatJon
himself. He had once seen GreatJon take on eleven of his own guards in a drunken rage and beaten
them soundly. He had emerged with barely a bruise and Jon had understood at that time why the
Umbers took a chained giant for their sigil.

“My Lords, My Lord’s,” his father called, “let us begin. We have limited time and much to do.”

“That we do.” Uncle Benjen agreed. “There are rumblings from beyond the wall. The rumours are
true. A new King has arisen.”

“A new king beyond the wall?” GreatJon asked, “Do we know who?”

“Mance Rayder.” Benjen confirmed. “A former sworn brother of the Nights Watch.”

“A deserter then.” Jon said.

Benjen shrugged half-heartedly. “In a way, but that is not how he, or the wildlings see it. He was
born a wildlings you see. The get of a wildling woman raped by a Black Brother.”

“Mance Rayder.” His father mused. “You’ve met him Jon.”

“I have?” Jon asked, searching his memories for a Black Brother that was a wildling. In his mind
he saw a great bearded figure clack in rough furs and a black cloak.

“He came to Winterfell when Qorgyle yet led the watch. If I remember correctly, he promised not
to tell anyone that you planned on dumping a mountain of snow on Fat Tom.”

Jon’s jaw dropped open. He did remember Mance Rayder, a wiry man of average height that was
clad in black furs, black armour and black leather. A true brother of the Nights Watch. Now he was
King Beyond the Wall though.

“What’s this Wildling king doing?” Rodrick Walton asked. “Is he planning on marching south?”

“I believe so.” Benjen said. “Most wildlings are congregating in three spots. From the talk of the
Free Folk we trade with, one host under Tormund Giantsbane is gathering in the Haunted Forest,
while Mance is gathering another on the banks of the Milkwater. The worst news though is that the
Thenns have left their valley. They are gathering a third host in the Skirling Pass.”

“The Thenn’s have left their valley?” Jon asked, his curiosity aroused. The Thenn’s hadn’t left their
valley in 10,000 years. “Why would they leave their valley now?”

“Only the gods know.” Benjen said. “But there is one thing that is without doubt. He means to
attack Hardhome.”

“Attack Hardhome?” Lord Stark asked, “What is there for him in Hardhome?”

“Ships.” Benjen replied. Next to him the GreatJon whistled lowly. “Crafty bastard. We’ll march to
the wall and he’ll slip past us with our own ships.”

“A great plan.” Beron Saltstark scoffed. “He will have an abundance of ships to be sure. But how
will he sail them without sailors?”
“I don’t know.” Benjen replied. “Perhaps he means to capture some of my sailors alive. Perhaps he
knows himself. In the end though, somehow he would get past the Wall. That is inevitable. Unless
we deal with the three separate hosts now, soon we will face a united Wildling host, said to be
anywhere from 10,000 to 200,000 strong.”

“If Mance Rayder has two hundred thousand men then I’m the Bloody Blessed Bastard himself.”
GreatJon scoffed. “Mance would be lucky to gather 100 wildlings to his cause. Everyone knows
that the wildlings are just as likely to fight themselves as they are to fight us.”

“Regardless of the size of Mance Rayder’s host,” Lord Stark interrupted, “Lord Hardstark has a
point. If he does have three separate hosts, then we cannot allow them to gather together.”

Jon’s father turned to him. “Jon you will lead a host to the Milkwater to break Mance’s host and if
you can, capture him alive.”

“I will?” Jon asked, a little surprised. There were men in this very room who were more capable
than him, and outside of this room, ten score more could be found. “What of Uncle Benjen?” Jon
asked. “Surely he would be better at leading a host through the Lands of Always Winter. Or what
of the GreatJon or even Roderick Walton?”

“Your right.” Jon’s father responded. “Which is why they will be going with you too.”

“We will?” Roderick Walton asked.

“Yes.” Lord Stark replied. “Watch over him, advise him and help him. When he returns you will
tell me how he went.” Lord Stark turned to Jon. “Consider this your first battle command. It is
better for you to get this experience against the bone daggers of wildlings than the steel swords of
sothron knights.”

“How many men will I have under my command?” Jon asked.

“1000.” His father replied. “I have already written a raven to Lord Commander Mormont. He has
promised 300 men of the Night’s Watch. I shall further provide you with 300 Weirwood Warriors
and 400 Winter Wolves. On top of that, I expect some members of you Wolf Pack will wish to
accompany you. I permit you to take no more than ten.”

Jon swallowed. His father was showing an incredible amount of faith in him by bestowing upon
him this command. The lives of over 1000 men would rest in his hands. That was no small
responsibility, especially when you were leading them into the hostile lands Beyond the Wall.

Jon dipped his head in acknowledgment of his father’s orders before pushing it to the back of his
mind. Already the High Council around him were moving on from the discussion of the King-
Beyond-The-Wall. Jon had to move on too. It would do no good to let anyone know how nervous
he was. He remembered the lessons his mother had given him, and he masked his features into a
cold, expressionless façade.

“Now with Mance Rayder out of the way.” His father was saying, “We need to talk about the state
of the south.”

“What of it?” GreatJon asked. “Who cares? One day when the White Wolf comes the south will be
as relevant to us as the wildlings are to the Dornish.”

“The south sits on the brink of war My Lords. Make no mistake, while the realm seems at peace,
Robert is the only thing holding this realm together. Once he is gone these seven kingdoms will
splinter into a war that will be worse than the Dance of the Dragons, and take more lives than my
own father’s rebellion.”

“What of it?” GreatJon asked. “Let the South go to war I say. Let them waste their armies upon
each other. When the time comes an army of Northerners will sweep south to right all the wrongs
and reclaim our crown.”

“What of it?” Jon’s father asked, his face clouded with not anger, but something close. “What of
the Vale lords and River lords who fought with us at Stoney Sept and the Trident? What of Denys
Arryn and Yohn Royce? What of Tytos Blackwood and Jason Mallister? What of our friends and
allies in the south? Shall we just leave them to fight their wars alone?”

“What can we do?” Wyman Manderly asked. “The Bloody Accords are clear Lord Stark. They are
not to be broken. I still don’t believe that you should be Hand of the King.”

“Cregan Stark did it.” His father responded.

“And so you have argued.” Wyman replied. “While I do not agree, I can see what you are saying. It
is for that alone that I have not refused to support you.”

“For now all this arguing is pointless.” Rodrick Walton interceded. “Instead of focusing on what
happens after Robert dies, why don’t we focus on keeping him alive? That will give us all more
time to plan. That will give the White Wolf more time to rise.”

“How long though?” Bowen Blackmyre asked. “How much longer must we wait for this saviour of
ours?”

“The gods showed the Bloody Blessed Bastard many things Lord Bowen.” Roderick Walton said,
“His visions have yet to be proven wrong. He was right about Mount Starpoint. He was right about
the Wolf’s Maw. He was right about the Dance of the Dragons. He will be right about the White
Wolf too.”

“You have a valid plan Lord Commander,” Jon interrupted, “But Robert is not long for this world.
He is a stag surrounded by lions who are growing hungrier and hungrier by the day. I don’t know
what more we can do to keep him alive.”

“We can show strength.” Jon’s father said, his grey eyes steely in their resolve. “In the south their
memories are short and they forget very easily. My father’s absence has been noted. They think
The Burnt Lord is gone. To them he is now just a distant memory, someone to scare your children
with, not to fear yourself. As to us, My Lords, they have forgotten our strength. They forgot what
happened to Jon Connington at Stoney Sept. They forgot what happened to Randyll Tarly besides
the shores of God’s Eye. They have forgotten what happened to Rhaegar at the Trident.”

Lord Stark got to his feet, and Jon’s father was gone. In his place was the man the South called The
Stranger’s Wolf. A warrior to be feared and respected, a man that you did not cross. “Well we shall
remind them. We shall show them why it was us that tore down the dragonlords from on high. We
shall show the south who exactly it is that lurks in the North watching King Robert’s back.”

“Hear, Hear.” The GreatJon bellowed as he slammed his ale horn down upon the table.

“Lord Manderly.” Eddard Stark said as he turned to the Master of Coin. “How goes our coffers?”

“Well, My Lord.” Lord Manderly replied. “They are brimming with coin in preparation for the
coming winter.”

“I want figures. How much do we have?”

Wyman shuffled the papers in front of him. “As you would know we have three main coffers. The
first of them, and the smallest, sits here in Winterfell. Those coffers contain just over one million
Golden Dragons. The second coffer in White Harbour is our largest and holds four million Golden
Dragons. Then we also have our account with the Iron Bank that is currently worth seven million
Golden Dragons. Between them all that makes twelve million Golden Dragons. On top of that we
have coin tied up in investments in Essos, and the trading cartels as well as a number of smaller
coffers scattered throughout the North.”

“Good.” Lord Stark replied. “We have enough then. While Robert was here, he told me the state of
the realms finances. The realm currently sits in six million dragons debt.”

“Six million dragons!” Jon exclaimed, “What did they spend it all on?”

“Tourneys and feasts for the most part.” Wyman Manderly responed. “I have been keeping an eye
on it for a while now.”

“How much of that debt is owed to the Lannisters?” Lord Stark asked.

Lord Manderly shuffled some more papers before giving a figure. “About three million.”

The GreatJon whistled lowly. “An impressive figure.”

Lord Stark nodded. “Gather three million dragons from the White Harbour coffers, load them onto
the most secure ships we have and they will come south with me when I head for King’s Landing.”

“What for?” Jon asked. “We will have need of that gold come winter.”

Lord Stark turned to Jon. “Our king is a stag surrounded by lions. Most of the lion’s power lies in
the gold the stag owes them. By buying out the Lannister’s share of the debt, any Lannister power
is directly transferred to us.”

“It’s a good plan.” Lord Wyman Manderly said. “But will we ever get our gold back. Robert
already owes us half a million golden dragons from five years ago. He is yet to even begin
repayments.”

“He will pay.” Lord Stark said. “Or he will suffer the same fate as Aerys. I will make this known to
him as well. Robert is many things, but stupid is not one of them.”

Lord Stark paused and took a sip of his ale. “Beron I want you to organise a fleet to escort the gold
and us south.”

Beron nodded. “I will get on it right away.”

“I also want transport for 2000 troops and a retinue of Northern lords.”

“It shall be done.”

“Good.”

“Martyn!” Lord Stark called, and the doors to the Council chambers cracked open and the Captain
of the guards stepped through. Martyn Cassel was one of House Stark’s most loyal servants and
had served in both the Company of the Rose and the Winter Wolves. He had been present at the
infamous clash at the Tower of Joy, where Ser Gerold Hightower had been killed and Lyanna’s
corpse had been found.
“Yes My Lord?” He asked.

“Gather 2000 of your best men and prepare them for a march to White Harbour. I need loyal men
in King’s Landing while I am there. I have no intention of suffering the same fate as my brother.”

“At once My Lord.” With that, Martyn Cassel turned and rushed to fulfil his lord’s bidding.

“Which lords will you take with you?” Lord Manderly asked.

Lord Stark stewed on the question for a moment before responding. “Summon Lords Bolton,
Karstark, Mormont and Glover of the founding families. I want either the Lord or the Heir of all the
cadet houses as well. You and Lord Blackmyre shall come as well Lord Manderly.”

Lord Manderly and Bowen Blackmyre nodded their heads. If Jon’s father had of gone south
without either of those two lords Jon would have been concerned for his welfare. As it was though,
the only man more capable of protecting him than those two was Rodrick Walton. And he would
be busy preparing for his trek North of the Wall with Jon.

“The South won’t know whats hit them.” Benjen said. “It will be the Hour of the Wolf come
again.”

“The Second Hour of the Wolf.” Lord Stark mused. “I like that.”

“What of your father Lord Stark? What does he have to say on this?”

Every eye turned to Ethan Glover, who had been silent up until now. He shrugged. “Very little I
imagine. He’s distracted with other things.”

“Like what?” Lord Stark asked.

“Fulfilling his duties as the Master of Eyes.”

“And?” Jon asked. “What does he know?”

Ethan leant forward. “I received news two days ago from Lord Rickard confirming rumours that
have been circulating for months. The White Eye and the Faceless men were at war.”

“Were?” Uncle Benjen asked. “What do you mean were?”

“Three days ago someone burnt down the House of Black and White in Braavos.”

The statement hung in the air for a long time and no one dared to respond.

“Who?” Someone managed to finally sputter out. “Who burnt it down?”

“We don’t know.” Ethan Glover replied. “But with the House of Black and White gone, the White
Eye are the only elite assassins left in the world. They will now have a monopoly on all the killing
contracts.”

“This will make them more powerful than ever.” Rodrick Walton said. “How goes the fight against
them?”

“Worse than ever.” Bowen Blackmyre replied. “We still know nothing about them. Our own wargs
have managed to shut down their charters in our major cities, but they still run amok in the South
and in the countrysides.”
Lord Stark sighed heavily. “Has my father found anything else?”

“Yes.” Ethan Glover replied. “The rumours surrounding Torrhen Snow’s expedition into Valyria
were nothing more than that. Rumours.”

At the mention of the Pirate King’s name the tempreture of the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Across the table, Beron Saltstark’s eyes were as cold as ice, and he was as taught as a bow string.

Torrhen Snow’s name lived in infamy in the North. To some he was a dashing hero, to others a
cursed kinslayer. Jon had spent many years with Torrhen Snow when he was younger, and he
didn’t believe he was either. He had been young when he had left, as Jon had thought on it over the
years he was certain the fires that Torrhen had lit had not been meant for his father’s wife and
firstborn son.

“It’s not surprising.” Beron Saltstark spat. “His talk has always been bigger than his walk.”

“He has however,” Ethan continued, “Acquired a number of very rare Valyrian artefacts, some of
which he sold to us through a broker in Braavos.”

“Where did he get them?” Jon asked.

Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know. You would have to ask him yourself.”

“What else of the pirate king?” Lord Stark asked. “Has he been on any more trips?”

“He has. He has been given the exclusive trade contracts with the Sothroyos colonies, and
continues to stake his claim upon the Stepstones. Last I heard, his last rival, a pirate named
Salladhor Saan from Lys had bent the knee to him and given up his fleet.”

“How large is his fleet now?” Lord Manderly asked.

“We believe it to be about 600 ships, and some 25,000 men.”

“25,000 pirates.” Beron Saltstark spat. “I’ve heard from the sailors that he has been attacking
shipping through the straits. The Dornish are unhappy and are sending envoys to King’s Landing
to have the problem dealt with.”

“The Dornish will have to learn to live with it.” Jon said. “You know Torrhen better than any of
Lord Saltstark. He is an admiral without peer, and by your own admission he sails the greatest ship
to have ever been produced by your shipyards. Any force sent against him would have great
trouble, even a Greyjoy one.”

“And that brings me to the next matter.” Ethan Glover interrupted, “The Greyjoys.”

“I know.” Lord Stark said with a sigh. “They are building their fleets up.”

“We can’t keep them from rebelling with promises forever.” Wyman Manderly warned.

“I know.” Lord Stark said, “But what more can I do, short of letting them take the crown they have
hungered after ever since Aegon burned Harrenhall to the ground?”

“There is a greater threat Lord Stark than having to pick between our long-time allies and our
king.” Ethan Glover said. “Already the Ironborn serving in the Company that are finishing their
contracts are not resigning. Instead they are going home. The news is that Balon plans to declare
himself a king upon the death of King Robert.”
“How many Ironborn have left so far?”

“Not many.” Ethan replied. “About 300. But the number is growing.”

“Have you warned the Company?” Jon asked.

“We have.” Ethan replied, “The Captain General and his captains are discussing what to do even
now.”

Lord Stark stewed in silence for a while before turning to Beron Saltstark. “I want you to increase
the patrols around Cape Kraken and Ready the Western Fleets. Fortify the Riversmaw and Moat
Cailin and transfer some troops to the Flint Cliffs.”

“May I also suggest transferring Kyle Waterman from White Harbour to Blazewater Bay?” Beron
suggested.

Lord Stark nodded in agreeance. Kyle Waterman was one of two humans in the world that had
warged with one of the fearsome blue whales that swam throughout the frigid northern waters. He
had served valiantly in Rickard’s Rebellion and was responsible for the breaking of the Redwyne
fleet. He was experienced, and an invaluable force for the Northern navy. “You may.”

“Balon won’t be stupid enough to attack us.” Jon said. “His son rides with me.”

“Perhaps not Jon.” Uncle Benjen responded, “But it doesn’t hurt us to be safe. Theon is the fourth
son of Balon Greyjoy. If Balon was offered a crown in exchange for his fourthborn would he take
the crown or keep his son?”

Jon didn’t know how to respond so kept silent. Around him the council shuffled their papers, and
prepared to leave. There was little more to discuss. “Is that all My Lords?”

No one brought anything new forth so Lord Stark dismissed them. The Lords shuffled out of the
room, but his Uncle Benjen remained behind.

“Brother.” Uncle Benjen said when everyone else had left and the door had closed behind them.
“Do you remember that raven you sent me a few years back?”

“Which one?” Lord Stark asked.

Jon made to leave, but his Uncle caught him by the arm. “Stay Jon. This concerns you too.”

Benjen turned back to his brother, while Jon took a seat. “The one where you asked me about
direwolves?”

His father’s head snapped up from the ledgers he was looking at so quickly, Jon heard something
crack. “You succeeded?” He asked.

“I did.” Benjen replied and his mouth burst into a grin. “They will be here by tonight.”

“What will?” Jon asked.

“Direwolves boy!” Jon’s father exclaimed, his excitement and joy evident. “Direwolves! House
Stark will have Direwolves again!”

Jon looked at his uncle incredulously, who nodded in confirmation. “How many?” Jon asked.

“Three.” Benjen replied. “Two males and one female. And that’s not all. The kennel master at
Harhome has confirmed the female is pregnant.”

Night couldn’t come fast enough in Jon’s opinion. Meeting the direwolves was going to be a family
affair, and all his siblings were present as well as his mother, father and cousin.

Uncle Benjen had left the city with one of his men, a certain Qhorin Halfhand, to meet the retinue
on the road and escort them into the city.

Jon’s father had gathered them all in the private courtyard of the Stark family. It was a secluded
and small place away from the bustle of the castle. Alaric and Artos were sparring with practice
swords as they waited, while Arya and Dyanna cheered them on. Jon sat with Robb on a low stone
fence as their parents watched from the ramparts above the courtyard.

“So you’re going North I hear.” Robb said.

“Aye.” Jon replied. “Father has placed me in command of 1000 men. I have orders to break Mance
Rayder’s host, and if possible capture him alive.”

“Who’s going with you?”

“The GreatJon. Uncle Benjen and Roderick Walton. And father also said I could take ten of the
Wolf Pack.”

“Only ten?” Robb asked. “Who are you going to take?”

“Sam.” Jon replied. “Gendry. SmallJon. A few others…”

“What about me?” Robb asked. “Will you take me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You were right Robb. A war is coming. I need you to protect my father. Watch over him, and
when the time comes serve him faithfully. Do whatever he ask of you, and do whatever he needs of
you. Remember the lone wolf dies but-“

“The pack survives.” Robb finished with a shaky grin. “The pack always survives.”

Jon smiled at his cousin, a man he considered more than a brother and enveloped him in a hug.
“I’m going to miss you Robb when I’m fighting wildings in the North.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

Jon went to say more, but was interrupted by a commotion from the gates. Uncle Benjen rode
through, a grin lighting up his face, and a small bundle of fur cradled in his arms.

“She gave birth!” He exclaimed before he had even jumped from his horse. “Six pups!” He cried,
“Six pups and this one was the oldest!”
 Uncle Benjen held up the squirming bundle within his arms and Jon looked at it in amazement. His
heart stopped in his chest and around him time seemed to stop. Its fur was white, and its eyes were
as red as the leaves that hung from the branches of the Weirwood.

Silence greeted Benjen’s declaration while all stared at the animal in his arms.

“A White Wolf.” Lord Stark remarked as he made his way down from the parapets. “The only
question now is whose White Wolf is it?”

Chapter End Notes

And here are the direwolves. I dropped alot of info this chapter, so it might be a bit
overwhelming. If you have any questions don't hesitate to drop a comment. And even
if you don't, drop a comment anyway and let me know if you liked it or loathed it!

And next chapter is a big time skip. For the next chapter is part one of The Second
Hour of the Wolf!!!!!

By the way I have decided to post the pairing I have in plan for Robb. Every few
chapters I will release another characters pairing so you guys can have a sort of idea of
what is coming. I will say though that Jon's pairing will not be published until it
happens!
 Eddard III: The Second Hour of the Wolf I
Chapter Summary

The Second Hour of the Wolf begins. A bit of a time skip from last chapter, but I don't
really want to write a filler chapter about what happened in the meantime.

Chapter Notes

Here it is. Hope you like it! Please, let me know what you think. I'm really nervous
about this chapter and the next so help me out by leaving a comment!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Lord Eddard Stark had not seen King’s Landing in 16 years. The last time he had been here, he had
come with grief in his heart and a babe in his arms. His sister’s bones had been carried in a casket
behind him, and his the stench of death lingered in his nostrils. Today it was a small army at his
back while in his nostrils the stench of shit lingered. It was the smell of this city and it hadn’t
changed one bit.

Ned had arrived at the capital city yesterday aboard a fleet of 40 ships. He had come with 2000
Winter Wolves and a retinue of the most powerful Lords in the North, as well as Lord Balon
Greyjoy. Ned had ordered for all the Lord Paramounts to be summoned. A few he had business to
deal with, while others he simply wanted to be there to witness what happens to those who cross
him.

Ned and his retinue of lords where making their way to the throne room now. Ned had called for
the most influential lords to come, and they had come. Lords Bolton, Karstark and Manderly had
come from the East, while from the West had come Lords Mormont, Glover and Dustin. On top of
that almost every cadet branch of House Stark was present, the only exception being House
Skastark of Skagos.

That house had only one member remaining, Lord Ragnar Skastark. Ned didn’t think anyone had
seen him in years either. He preffered to spend his days alone in the wilds of Skagos rather than the
family holdfast of Skahold. He had married no woman and bore no sons, trueborn or otherwise.
Ned hadn’t even bothered to send a raven. By the time he would have received it anyway, Ned
would have had to be gone.

At Ned’s side trotted the direwolf that Benjen had captured in the Lands Beyond the Wall. Ned had
named it Skirling, after the pass in the Land’s Beyond the Wall, from which it’s ancestors were
said to have hailed. Benjen had kept the other male as his own, and his was named Storrold, after
the peninsula on which he ruled. Farlen, the kennelmaster at Winterfell believed the two to be
brothers, as their colouring was very similar. They both had dark grey fur, though Skirling’s was a
shade darker. Skirling was also the larger, powerfully built with a wide muzzle and broad
shoulders. Storrold was thinner, and had more of a loping grace to him.

Ned, Skirling and his retinue arrived at the throne room, and the doors were opened by his guards.
Ned noted with approval that they had already secured much of the Red Keep. Soon his troops
would have control of the entire city, and then the time would come to strike. Ned was leaving
nothing to chance. He knew just how slippery the man he was after was. He had eluded justice for
a long time now. No more.

Inside the throne room all the gathered and summoned nobles rose to their feet. At the front of the
hall, arrayed to the left of the Iron Throne, the entire small council was present. Lord Varys and
Lord Baelish stood side by side, tittering and whispering about something or the other. Next to
them Renly lounged with an easy smile upon his face, while the Grand Maester dozed in his seat.
The last member present was Lord Stannis, who sat apart from the others and with one hand upon
the sword that rested at his side. Many of the lords and ladies eyed the direwolf in consternation,
and whispers broke out across the hall.

Ser Barristan Selmy and the King had gone hunting in the Kingswood. They would not be present
for the coming Hour. And just as well. Ned did not know if Robert would be able to control his
rage when he found out the truth of what Ned was about to present.

Ned had had a hard enough time of it, and he was renowned for his patience and coolness.

On the stands to the left of the throne and beyond the Small Council sat the Lords that had been
summoned. Lord Tywin Lannister sat closest to the throne, and Queen Cersei sat with him. He was
surrounded by a retinue of five lords he had brought with him. Lords Crakehall, Lefford, Marbrand
and Banefort were present, as well as Tywin Lannister’s favoured attack dog; Ser Gregor Clegane.

Thankfully, someone somewhere had had the sense to sit Prince Oberyn Martell on the other side
of the room. This did nothing to stop the murderous rage that played out across his features. His
eyes smouldered and his teeth were bared in a snarl. His hands twitched, and the knives at his belt
had never looked more dangerous. His rage only grew when he saw Lord Beron Saltstark in Ned’s
retinue.

In between Oberyn and Tywin sat the other lords. Edmure Tully had come to represent his father,
while Denys Arryn had ridden down from the Vale when Lysa Arryn had refused the summons. It
was good to see Denys again. He hadn’t seen him in a long time.

From the Reach had come Mace Tyrell, and he had brought his entire family with him. The only
absent one was his eldest son, Willas. The man was crippled they said, and had trouble travelling
far distances.

Ned’s lords filed past him and took up the stands on the right of the Iron Throne. Ned’s new squire,
Prince Tommen, moved to stand at the base of the Iron Throne.

Tommen had the makings of a good squire, though for now he was far too weak hearted to ever be
a warrior of any sort. Ned had seen weaker hearts though and seen them changed by life with a
Stark. Samwell Tarly had been a self-confessed craven and coward when he had first come North,
but now he was one of the best fighters with a battle-axe that Ned had ever seen. He wasn’t as
good as the Smalljon, but then again, no one was. Sam’s friendship with Jon had helped
tremendously and Ned had been glad to see that while Tommen and Alaric had originally gotten
off on the wrong foot, they had recently been getting along much better, to the point where they
were becoming fast friends. At the sight of Tommen, a strangled cry escaped Queen Cersei and she
made to run for him before being stopped by her father.

Ned himself ignored the tumult around him and ascended up the steps of the Iron Throne before
sitting at its height. Skirling lay across the base of the thrown his eyes watching those present
warily. Ned peered down on the assembled Lords and Ladies and waited for the hall to fall silent.
A strange mixture of curiosity and impatience caused the lords to fall silent far quicker than Ned
expected, and he paused before finally speaking.

“My Lords,” Ned began, “150 years ago my ancestor rode south. His name was Cregan Stark and
he ruled as Hand of the King to Aegon the Oathbreaker for only six days. Those six days though
have gone down in the history books as the Hour of the Wolf. It was in those six days that Cregan
Stark cleansed the realm of the rot that had infested it before and during the Dance of the
Dragons.”

Ned paused and looked at all of the present lords in the eye. Some refused to meet his gaze, while
others stared back defiantly.

“If Cregan’s rule of realm cleansing was the first Hour of the Wolf then consider this the second
Hour. I have given the king six days of my time, and I have no intention of wasting any of them.
Over the next few days many trials will be held, many executions will be undertaken and many
guilty men will die. I will cleanse the realm of whatever rot has infested it in the last few years, and
put this realm back to order.”

“Back to order?” Prince Oberyn Martell asked, “Order like we had in the days of the Targaryens?”

Silence settled over the hall, and Ned slid his gaze towards the Prince who had almost killed him.
He hadn’t changed very little, and had aged as well as a fine northern ale. His form was still strong,
and his gaze piercing, while the same lazy smile lingered in the corners of his mouth.

Ignoring him, Ned went on. “No doubt by now, many of you are wondering why you are here.
Some of you are here because you are the ones from which this rot spreads. Some of you are here
to witness what happens to those who spread rot in this realm. And some of you…will not be here
much longer.”

“And what if we don’t want to be here?” Tywin Lannister asked. “Who are you to tell me when
and where I must be and go?”

“No doubt by now,” Ned replied, “many of you have noticed the force of men I brought with me.
As we speak, those men are securing the city. Already they have secured this keep. Soon the gates
to the city will be shut, and the docks closed. No one will be able to leave this city without my
consent. You don’t have the men to take back the city, and neither do you have the authority. Your
men will be kept within their garrisons until the end of my rule as Hand of the King. However, if
you truly have no wish to be part of the coming Hour, then by all means, tell me now and I shall let
you go. I warn you however, when my armies and ships come south next, they will turn their backs
on whoever turns their back on me now. If you wish to go, say so now and turn your back.”

Unsurprisingly, no one moved. No one wanted to be the ones to go without the support of the
largest and most powerful realm in whatever wars were to come.

“Good.” Ned said, “I am glad to see that the South has not lost all of their sense. You have all
chosen to stay, and if any of try to leave this room without my permission, my men will assume
that you are fleeing because you are guilty of crimes that I know of. In the North, there is only one
punishment for fleeing from your crimes.” Ned paused and let his last statement hang in the air. He
watched the gathered lords took in the severity of what he had just said before continuing. “There
is more you must know. The next few days will be binding upon the Iron Throne. The rules and
precedents set forth will be ingrained within the crown, and cannot be changed. That was the
agreement I struck with Robert, and I will not have it broken. I will not fix this realm, only to return
in five years when someone has undone what I will do over the next few days. What is the use of
beating my sword into a ploughshare, if I must reforge it in a moon’s time? It is pointless, like
chasing the wind. I am a Northerner. Unlike you of the south, I have no time to chase the wind.”

Ned sighed before looking out upon those assembled before him. By tomorrow this room would
look a lot different. Men who stood here now would not be here, and others would find themselves
in positions of new found power.

“Words are also wind, My Lords, and I have no time to chase after that sort of wind either. I will
tell you all now, If I say you are guilty of committing a crime, or you have contributed to the rot
that sits in this realm, know you are guilty of it. I would not accuse you without proof, and I have
personally ensured that any proof I have is beyond reproach. Know this; those of you who lie will
suffer tenfold. For those of you that insist upon your innocence even after I have proven you guilty
before your lords and peers, you will suffer twenty fold. And for the most despicable among you,
for those of you that have committed true crimes against the crown and not just contributed to the
rot in this realm, for you your death is all but assured. The only thing I am deciding upon today is
whether you death will be quick and merciful or painful and protracted.”

Ned looked around once more, and noted with a hint of amusement that those who were most
guilty looked least concerned, while those who had nothing to fear looked as though they were the
ones guilty of crimes.

“I have one last thing to say, My Lords, before I begin. And that is this. The so called ‘Game of
Thrones’ as you know it, is over. You wish to play your highborn games of masks and mockery, of
gossip and espionage and grabs for power then by all means go ahead and play. You will not
however, play this game with me or mine, or with King Robert’s throne. That throne belongs to
Robert of the House Baratheon, and none of us. It’s not the Stark’s, it’s not the Lannister’s, and it’s
not even the bloody Targaryen’s. It’s Roberts. My family won that throne for him on the
battlefield, and if he needs we will keep that throne for him on the battlefield. Until he dies, you
will not be arguing over it.”

Ned paused, and nodded to Martyn who stood guard by the doors. “With that being said, My
Lords, let us begin. Let it be known to highborn and commoner alike that the Second Hour of the
Wolf has begun.”

Martyn slipped through the doors and emerged moments later with the Lord Commander of the
Gold Cloaks and his leading captains. Janos Slynt was the Lord Commander’s name, and had
never met more an incompetent gaggle of fools than the ones who stood before him now. His
golden armour was polished to a shine and the sword at his side was expensive castle forged steel
with a hilt of gilded gold and a heavily bejewelled pommel. It was far above the means of most
lords, let alone the low-born Lord Commander of the City Watch.

“My Lord.” Janos Slynt said as he dropped to one knee before him, his jowly mouth twisted into
what Ned supposed that Janos thought was a respectful smile.

“Rise Lord Commander Slynt.” Ned replied, and Janos Slynt rose to his feet. Ned stared down at
the commander of the city watch, evaluating the man before him. Janos stood in respectful silence,
while his captains looked on in awe. Ned doubted they had ever been in this room, let alone seen it
filled with the most powerful lords of Westeros. “Tell me Lord Commander,” Ned began, “How
many years have you served the City Watch?”

“Eighteen M’lord.”

“Eighteen years?” Ned asked. “So you were in the watch before Aerys was thrown from his
throne?”
“I was.” Janos replied, “I was one of the men on the walls when your father sacrificed that inbred
bastard to your gods.”

Ned nodded. “And how many years have you been Lord Commander?”

“Eight M’Lord.”

“Eight years.” Ned mused. “Eight years you have been in command of the City Watch. Now why
do you think I called you and your captains here today?”

“I don’t know M’Lord.”

“Have a guess.”

“Reward perhaps?” Janos suggested with a grin. “I’ll have you know that these last few years in
King’s Landing crime has been dropping.”

“Dropping, you say?” Ned asked.

“Yes.” Janos replied. “Every moon my men get bothered less and less by the citizens of King’s
Landing.”

Ned got to his feet and made his way down the steps of the Iron Throne to where Janos Slynt
stood. He looked him straight in the eyes, and almost immediately Janos’ eyes flitted away.

“Lord Karstark,” Ned said as he turned to his retinue. “Bring me a block. Tommen, bring me Ice.”
Both man and boy rushed away to do his bidding.

“M-m-m’lord?” Janos Slynt questioned, “What are you doing?”

Ned turned to the other side of the room, where the lords who were not of the North were
assembled. “Behold, My Lords, the first to fall. Janos says he was on the walls the day Rhaegar
died. I was there. If Janos truly was upon that wall then he fled with all the others. I name him a
coward and craven. He shirked his duties. That is not the man that will lead the Gold Cloaks in any
realm in which I am Hand of the King.”

“You would sentence me to death for abandoning the Mad King when his cause was lost?” Janos
roared, and his hand leapt to his sword.

Skirling leapt to his feet, his teeth bared and a growl rumbling from his being. Janos Slynt fell
silent, and dropped his hand from his sword.

“If I was Aerys I would, and I would be justified in doing so. Now however, Not at all.” Ned
replied. “I have not sentenced anyone to death of yet. What I just did was strip you of your office as
Lord Commander of the City Watch.”

“What?” Janos replied, aghast. “You cannot!”

“I just did.” Ned replied. “And now I will name the crimes for which you are sentenced to death.”

“Death!” Janos replied weakly. “For what crimes?”

“You said something interesting before Janos. Do you know what it was?”

“Please M’Lord!” The man begged as he fell to his knees and tears began to fall down his cheeks.
“I’ll do anything! Don’t kill me!”
Ned turned to the lords, who were watching the spectacle with interest. “Correct me if I am wrong,
My Lords, but earlier Janos Slynt said that crime had been dropping in this city. That each moon
less and less reports were made to his men.”

The lords present nodded in agreeance and Ned turned to the captains who had accompanied Janos
Slynt. “And what of you men?” He asked, “Why has crime been dropping?”

The men shuffled their feet, but none answered until one with an Iron Hand stepped forward.
“Because they don’t bother anymore.” He all but spat. “They know nothing is going to happen
unless they pay the proper bribes. Bribes that most in King’s Landing can’t afford.”

Ned looked at the men long and hard. This man’s eyes never left Ned’s. “What is your name?”

“Jacelyn My Lord.” The man replied. “Jacelyn Bywater. Most men call me the Ironhand of the Old
Gods though.”

“I understand the Ironhand part.” Ned replied, “But what do you mean of the Old Gods?”

Jacelyn shrugged. “I took to the Old Gods and the Old Way a few years back. It was a few weeks
after the Battle for King’s Landing. I had been fighting on the Trident, and your lords had just let
me free. On my way into the city I was marched past Rhaegar’s Weirwood. It was on that day that
I forswore the seven, renounced my knightly oaths and began to practice the Old Way.”

Ned nodded. “Congratulations on your new appointment.”

“My Lord?” Jacelyn asked, the confusion evident on his face. “What do you mean?”

“You are now the Lord Commander of the City Watch. Fix it. Get rid of the corruption. Get rid of
the bribes. Sack those who you need to, kill those who you have to. Do whatever you need to bring
the City Watch back to its former glory. I will leave two hundred of my best men with you to help
you. They will follow your command, but I warn you Lord Commander, the second you stray from
the path I have set you on, they will bring you before the king in chains.”

Jacelyn looked shocked at the honour, before dropping to one knee. “Thank you, My Lord.” He
said. “I will do my best to honour you and my gods.”

Ned nodded. “I know you will.” He said and then he turned to the remaining captains. “As for you
lot, you have a choice to make. Soon Lord Karstark and my squire will be here. You can either join
your former Lord Commander on the block, or you can travel to the Wall on the next available
ship.”

The doors opened and Rickard Karstark strode in, a great big black chunk of ironwood clasped in
his hands. Behind him Tommen struggled with the length of Ice. Both men made their way down
the silent hall, their steps resounding loudly. Rickard Karstark dropped the block at the base of the
Iron Throne, right next to Janos Slynt. Tommen walked to Ned and offered the blade to him hilt
first.

On the floor Janos Slynt burst into sobs. “Please!” He screamed, “Let me go to the Wall! Please!”
His cries turned into a wordless scream as two of Ned’s guard strode forward and gripped him by
the arms. They dragged him over to the block and forced his head down upon it.

In the stands where the lords of the South sat Lord Tyrell got to his feet. “Lord Stark!” He cried,
his face pale. “You cannot mean to execute this man here do you?”

“Of course I do.” Ned replied.

Lord Tyrell looked aghast and gaped like a dying fish. He looked to his left where his young
daughter sat. She was a pretty little thing, as delicate as the roses that graced her family’s banners.
Her eyes though gave away the good act she put on. “I must protest My Lord.” Mace Tyrell
exclaimed. “My daughter and mother are present, as well as the queen and many other noble
ladies. Must we subject them to witness such a sight? Must any of us witness such a sight?”

“Of course you must.” Ned replied. “I am deeply sorry if anyone here is going to be disturbed by
what you’re about to see, but that is what you are here for. Did I not say that you had been called as
witnesses to what happens to those who spread rot within this realm? Well this man here is the root
of the rot within this very city, and as such he will be the first to fall, though dare I say, not the last.
If you did not wish to see this, I gave you all an opportunity to turn your backs, an opportunity that
none of you took.”

Mace Tyrell opened his mouth again, but Ned cut him off. “And Lord Tyrell, if you did not wish
for your daughter or mother to see such a sight, you should not have brought them with you! As far
as I know I commanded the king to invite you, not your entire family. So unless you have anything
else you wish to say I would kindly suggest that you sit down.”

Mace Tyrell looked at his mother, and Ned turned to the Queen of Thorns also. Her lips were set in
a thin line and her eyes were cold. They watched Ned for a long while, before flicking to her son.
She gestured to his seat and he sat.

Ned levelled one last look at the lord before turning back to Janos Slynt. “Janos Slynt, In the name
of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord
of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of
Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die for your crimes of bribery, corruption,
murder, blackmail and conduct unworthy of a member of the City Watch.”

Ned turned to Tommen whose face was pale and hands were shaking. Ned smiled sadly at the
young prince, before firmly grasping the hilt of Ice and wrenching it from its sheath of wolf’s fur.
He held the smoky, Valyrian Steel blade high in the air for a second, before bringing it down
quickly.

Janos Slynt’s sobs and struggles ended very quickly once his head was detached from his body.
The blood gushed from his neck, and splashed onto the stone floor in front of the Iron Throne. Ned
said a quick prayer to the Old Gods before turning back to the remaining captains. “So?” He asked,
“What will your choice be?”

Unsurprisingly, all of them chose to swear the oaths of the Night’s Watch.

Ned nodded, and waited at the bottom of the stairs of the Iron Throne while his soldiers escorted
away the new recruits of the Night’s Watch. Jeor Mormont would be happy. He was always in
need of men, good or otherwise.

Ned sighed and handed his blade back to Tommen. Tommen dutifully picked up the rag at his feet
and wiped the blood off it. He looked like he was about to either retch or burst into tears, but Ned
had been attentive in his training ever since he had taken him on, and he did not shirk from his
duty.

Ned climbed back up the steps of the Iron Throne and over the next hour, scores of people were
led into the Throne Room to be tried for different crimes. From wayward customs officials to cut
throats that roamed the streets of Flea-Bottom, all were tried and punished. The minor ones Ned
sentenced with fines, while some were sent to the Wall. The worst though, Ned took straight to the
block, including two men who had come from the Black Cells.
Their names were Rorge and Biter, and both were strange, queer men that Ned was glad to see
gone from this world. When the sun was high in the sky the lists his men had brought him were
empty of the common criminals and it was time to begin with the nobility.

As Ned climbed back up the Iron Throne, he took the opportunity to behold the lords and ladies
who sat seated in the stands. Many were pale, and more than one was eyeing the large pool of
blood in front of the Iron Throne with horror. Some looked nervous, no doubt wondering if they
had been summoned to face the same fate, while others looked on with a steel mask.

Of all of them though, it was Tywin Lannister who surprised him the most. Though his face was
still a mask of steel, his eyes held and approving and admiring glint to them, though it was gone as
quickly as it had occurred.

Ned sat down, and Tommen followed him up the stairs to offer him a glass of wine. Ned took that
goblet thankfully and quenched his parched throat. Executing criminals was thirsty work.

“My Lords,” Ned called when Tommen had retreated once more, “I am sure you will be glad to
know that for now, we are done dealing with the common criminals. With those that have spread
their rot within this city. It is now time to deal with those who have spread their rot throughout this
realm. Remember what I told you at the beginning My Lords. For those of you that lie, the
punishment will be tenfold. For those of you who deny, the punishment shall be twentyfold.”

The lords nodded nervously and Ned reached for the list in his pocket. He withdrew it carefully,
and made an act of unrolling it. The tension on the other side of the room was almost palpable.
Ned wasn’t one to relish in these sort of mind games, but he took immense satisfaction in watching
Petyr Baelish squirm where he sat. Oh, how he would make that man suffer for what he had done.
And he would take great pleasure in it too. Ned glanced down at the scroll and read the name that
was first on his list.

“Lord Tywin Lannister!” He called.

The Old Lion didn’t move for a second, instead just watching Ned. Just when it was reaching the
point of insubordination Tywin Lannister slowly rose to his feet. He made his way down from
where he was seated slowly, each step measured and each movement precise. His eyes were cold,
but Ned could see the mind whirring away within. Surely he was wondering what he had been
called up here for.

Tywin Lannister finally arrived before the Iron Throne, and stood tall with his arms clasped behind
his back, his legs planted firmly. It was clear to all the image that Tywin was trying to convey. Ned
didn’t need an image though to know that Tywin Lannister was a powerful and intelligent lord. As
much as Ned may have wished otherwise, this would not be the trip where he would be making an
enemy of Tywin Lannister. That would be saved for later, for the days when the White Wolf in the
North was grown.

“Lord Stark.” Tywin greeted with a small sneer. “If you think you can call me like a wayward dog,
and then drag me before this throne and accuse me of whatever crime’s you think I have
committed, you will find that my reputation is above reproach. I may have done many horrible
things in my time, but all I have done I have done the advancement of my house and my family, and
last I checked that wasn’t a crime. Indeed, that was what your father did during his grand
rebellion.”

Ned nodded. “You are right My Lord. The advancement of house and family is not a crime. And I
agree with you also, that while you have done horrible things none of them were crimes, at least
crimes of which I can prove before your peers today.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ned saw Prince Oberyn scoff and glare at the both of them, while
before him Tywin nodded. “I am a leal servant of the crown, Lord Stark, and I challenge you to
prove me otherwise.”

“I won’t bother wasting my time or yours.” Ned replied, “As I said at the start of this I have no to
chase the wind. And I have not called you before the throne today to question your actions or
accuse you of crimes. Indeed, of the people in this room today, you are of the few who has my
utmost respect and admiration as a man who was both lord of a rich realm and Hand of the King. I
am doing this for six days and I am struggling. I have no clue how you managed for as long as you
did, especially when we consider that you were Hand to Aerys when he still lingered on the brink
of insanity and had not yet tipped over the edge.”

Ned saw a crack in Tywin’s veneer façade, and a look of pride flashed across his features before
being quickly supressed.

“I have called you before the throne today,” Ned continued, “To discuss the state of the realms
finances and the amount of debt this throne owes to you.”

Tywin nodded. “What would you like to know?”

“How much has King Robert borrowed from you?”

“Three million and one hundred thousand.” Tywin Lannister replied.

Ned nodded and turned to Lord Manderly. “Have them brought in now, Lord Manderly and get me
the transfer papers.”

Tywin watched the exchange silently, and Ned waited patiently while Wyman Manderly carried
out his commands. After barely a moment, the dors swung wide open and the chests that had been
carefully counted and loaded at White Harbour were brought into the room by the most trusted and
loyal men that could be found in the North. It was no small amount in the chests that were being
brought into the room.

When the last chest had been laid down, and Wyman Manderly had handed Ned the papers he
needed Ned turned back to Tywin Lannister. “There is your three million one hundred thousand
golden dragons the crown owes you Lord Lannister. Here is the paperwork that accompanies those
chests.”

Tywin glanced at the piles of chest with an appraising eye. “How many chest are there?” He asked.

“50.” Ned replied, “Each loaded with 62,000 Golden Dragons each. Counted under the watchful of
mine and Lord Manderly’s most trusted men. If you wish, you can count them yourself.”

Tywin quickly did the math in his head, and Ned waited for him to figure out what Ned had done.
“And what of the interest?” Tywin asked.

“Interest?” Ned replied. “What interest?”

“The crown owes me three hundred and ten thousand golden dragons in interest.”

“The crown owes you nothing more.” Ned scoffed. “The fact that your grandson will sit upon the
Iron Throne is interest enough. Take your money and go.”

“No.” A voice called, and Ned flicked his eyes to see Queen Cersei rise to her feet. “As Queen I
command that the interest be paid.”
“As Hand of the King, I have said that the interest has already been paid. My decision stands.”

“I am the Queen-“

“And I am the Hand of the King.” Ned replied to Cersei. “If you think you have any power over
me because you are Queen, you are sorely mistaken. I only accepted this position on a few
conditions, conditions that Robert agreed to. One of which was that my decisions are final.” Ned
glared at the Queen before turning back to Lord Tywin. “Take the money now, or lose all of it with
no hope of getting it back. And if your daughter speaks out of turn again, you will lose it
regardless.”

Tywin stared at Ned coldly, before bowing stiffly and turning his back. Ned’s men moved in from
the walls to secure the chests and Martyn Cassel approached Lord Lannister to see what he wanted
done.

Ned turned his gaze back to the other lords and breathed in deeply. He did not even have to look to
his list to know who he was about to call. He had dreamt of this moment for months now, ever
since he had heard that Jon Arryn had died. It had consumed his thoughts more than he cared to
admit, and the moment of his wrath was finally here.

“My Lords!” Ned called as he got to his feet, “My Lords.”

The lords and ladies in the stands quietened down and turned their attention away from the wealth
of a nation that sat in front of them and towards the imposing man who stood atop the Iron Throne.

“My Lords,” Ned began, “There are only two men who I care for in the south the same as I care
about a Northerner. The first is Robert, who was raised beside me as a brother. We laughed
together, we cried together, and when the time came we fought together. Robert was my brother in
all but name. He wronged me and my family much, but through it all my love for him held firm,
and his love for me did so too.”

Ned paused and looked directly at Varys. “The other man I loved was a man who had never
wronged me. He had raised me from eight years of age, and Robert too. He was a man who desired
peace above all, but when war came he stood by those he loved. He stood by the sons that he had
taken for his own since the gods had given him none. When his king called for him to kill me, he
burned his kings commands and called his banners instead. He was the man who first declared his
support for my family, and my father. He was the man who watched the realm while Robert
whored and drunk. He was a great man, and he is dead. Jon Arryn was his name, and he was as
good as a father to me as my own was. It is for that reason, and only for that reason, that I came
south at all. The love I bore for him, meant I could not let his murder go unavenged.”

Ned’s final words hung in the air, and it took a second for those gathered to garner the meaning of
his words. Immediately the throne room burst into roars and yells. Ned sat in silence for a moment,
and absorbed the shock and anger that was racing around the room.

“Name his name!” Mace Tyrell called, “Name him and we shall take his head!”

“He who killed the Hand of the King deserves nothing less!” Renly declared.

“Who was it?” Oberyn Martell asked, his expression bemused.

“My uncle?” Denys Arryn roared, “Who murdered my uncle!?”

Ned raised his hand and the hall quietened. “I have brought you all here today to witness what
happens to those who harm those who I care for. I care for few outside of the North, but harm
 those who I do, and you had best start praying to whatever gods you believe in. Because mine sure
won’t be merciful. And neither shall I.”

Ned rose to his feet and began to carefully make his way down the dais, Ice, clutched in one hand.
Its length rippled in the shadows, and among the pile of dragon smelted steel upon which he
walked, it was the blade of a king.

“It seems that you of the south did not learn from Rhaegar and Aerys. It seems that you have
become blind to their fates, even as Rhaegar sits in eternal agony before the gates of this city every
day. It seems you have forgotten the names that I and my father carry. It seems that you have
forgotten our reputations. Today, you will remember. You will remember why my father is The
Burnt Lord and I am The Stranger’s Wolf. You will learn why our names are whispered of in fear
by your smallfolk, and our faces haunt your soldier’s nightmares. You will learn why the sound of
wolves is the sound of war and the sight of white and grey banners is the sight of death. You will
learn why you did not anger me, or my house. You will learn today, or you will die tomorrow. You
will die like he who murdered Jon Arryn is about to die.”

Ned paused and turned to the murderer of Jon Arryn. “Petyr Baelish. Step forth and answer for
your crimes.”

Chapter End Notes

Not sure when the next chapter will be uploaded. Still trying to figure out a few small
details and dialogue between certain characters. Please, let me know what you think.
I'm really nervous about this chapter and the next so help me out by leaving a
comment!
 Eddard IV: The Second Hour of the Wolf II
Chapter Summary

The Second Hour of the Wolf concludes and Ned heads back home.

Chapter Notes

I'm so sorry for the lack of updates, I meant to upload this three days ago but I came
down with a flu and it's kept me from doin everything. I'm just beginning to get over it
so hopefully I'll be able to upload a bit more! Thanks for the support and please leave
a review and tell me what you think!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Petyr Baelish got to his feet slowly and warily. His eyes moved around the room, searching for
allies. Yet alas, none were to be found. Ned had rooted them from this room, before they had even
arrived. The entirety of those gathered stared at the lord of the littlest finger. Silence hung heavily
in the air, so thick not even a Valyrian Steel blade could have cut it.

But Ned’s voice could. “Lord Baelish, step forward and answer for your crimes or I shall have you
dragged before me like a common criminal.”

“Lord Stark…” Baelish said with a slight frown, “forgive me…I’m a bit confused.”

“What part confuses you my lord. Which charge? The charge of treason? The charge of murder?
The charge of adultery? The charges of embezzlement and corruption?”

Baelish flicked his eyes to the door, and most probably briefly considered running. But as quickly
as that fancy came, it went.

Petyr Baelish returned his gaze to Ned. His eyes burned with anger, but his face was a mask of
serenity. Littefinger breathed in once, and then stepped forth. The Mummer’s Farce had begun.

“Crimes, My Lord?” He asked, “I don’t know what crimes you think I have committed but I can
assure you that I will defend my innocence until my dying breath.”

“I accuse you of murdering Jon of House Arryn, Hand of the King, Lord of the Eyrie and Lord
Paramount of the Vale. Do you deny it?”

Baelish looked shocked for a second, before rearranging his features in a mask of cold rage. “I
deny it!” He barked, “I deny it emphatically! Lord Arryn was like a father to me! I owe everything
to him, including my position on the small council! I would not betray him for anything!”

“And yet you killed him.”

“I did not.” Baelish replied angrily. “You cannot just throw these accusations before me without
proof Lord Hand. I don’t care how much authority or power the king gave you in this realm. Those
are the laws of gods and men.”

“Don’t speak to me of the laws of gods and men.” Ned scoffed. “What would you know of them?”

“More than you it seems,” Baelish replied. “You are yet to offer any proof of any crimes I have
committed.”

“This is your last chance to confess Lord Baelish. I promise you now, deny your crimes again and I
will ensure your death is the most painful I can come up with.”

“I deny it.” Baelish replied. “And I still wait upon your proof.”

Ned sighed. “Very well. You have chosen your path Lord Baelish and now it is time you walk
upon it.”

“You have no proof of anything.” Baelish stated. “If this is a trial, I deserve a defence. Let me
speak to my peers and have them judge me.”

Ned smiled thinly. He knew Petyr’s game. For today though, he was prepared to play. “If you
think these lords are your peers, Lord Baelish, you will find you are sorely outmatched. These are
the men that rule over the men that rule over men like you. I am the man that rules over them.
Today I am judge, jury and executioner. Say your piece, and try to convince me of your
innocence.”

Baelish swallowed and returned Ned’s smile. “There are many men within this city who can vouch
for my character. Since arriving Lord Stark you have branded me a craven and a coward, a traitor
and a murderer.”

“I brand you more than just that!” Ned cried. “I brand you a man without honour! I brand you an
oath breaker and a liar!”

“More accusations and yet no proof!” Baelish cried in reply.

“Your precious proof is coming.” Ned replied. “My men have ridden for days and nights to bring
me the proof that will bring me your head.”

“You would need a lot of proof to convict me of anything.”

“I don’t need a million witnesses to your crimes, each paid a million dragons to lie to convict you
of the crimes you are guilty of. I only need one witness. One witness who can testify that you killed
Jon Arryn.”

“You have no such proof.”

Ned smiled coldly and nodded. And waited. As did the court. As did Baelish. Soon, one of his
guardsmen, a man by the name of Wyllard, entered the hall. He approached Ned, and climbed up
the Iron Throne to speak with him. “They are here.” He whispered.

Ned nodded and Wyllard left to collect them. The doors opened and in strode Ser Brynden Tully
and Lord Yohn Royce.

They both dropped to one knee before him. Ned hadn’t seen Bronze Yohn since he had come north
to personally talk with Ned about getting his son, Waymar, into the Company of the Rose. Ned had
pulled some strings for him and Waymar Royce had found himself as a sergeant within the
Company on a ten year contract that would be ending in seven years’ time.
Ser Brydnen he had last seen at Winterfell six weeks prior when he had dispatched him with his
mission. Ser Brynden had been deeply upset, but Ned trusted no one else within the North to do as
he had asked of him. The Northerners were a loyal lot, yet sometimes too loyal. He needed this
witness here unharmed, and no one was more certain of ensuring that than the Master of the Moat.

“Rise.” Ned commanded. “You have served me valiantly, and I commend you both. Both of you
have a place of pride at my hearth if you are ever in need of one.”

Both men nodded their thanks. Lord Royce moved away to go and sit with Denys Arryn while Ser
Brynden Tully lingered. “Lord Stark.” He called, his face grave.

“Ser Brynden?”

“I have stood by your family through much Lord Stark. When my family wronged yours I stood by
you. When yours wronged mine, against my brother’s wishes, I stood by you. I tell you now
though, if any more of my blood is harmed upon this day, then I shall stand by you no longer.”

The court murmured and Ned resisted the urge to yell at the man for his stupidity. Breathing in and
composing himself, Ned responded. “Fear not, Ser Brynden. No Tully blood shall be split upon this
day.”

Ser Brynden nodded and moved away, to sit with his nephew. Ned nodded at the guards and the
doors were opened. Slowly a wailing cry filled the air, growing louder and louder as the witness
was brought closer and closer.

She came through the doors screaming like a wraith.

Lysa Arryn looked the part to. Her eyes were red rimmed and sunken in their sockets, while her
face was marred with scratches and tears. Her fine clothes were dirty and torn, and her hair was
dishevelled. She crumpled to her knees in front of the Iron Throne.

“Lady Lysa.” Ned said, when her sobbing subsided a little. “I have dragged you before this throne
today to answer for crimes that you and Petyr Baelish have been accused of. Tell me now, before
gods and men, what part did you have in the death of Jon Arryn!”

“No part! No part! No part!” She shrieked. “It was the Lannisters! It was all the Lannisters! Ask
the queen! She’s guilty! She killed him!”

Cersei stood up in anger and went to yell, only for her father to drag her back down when Ned shot
him a look. A match of whispering erupted between the two, but thankfully it did not reach Ned’s
ears.

“So someone did kill Jon Arryn? He didn’t die of natural causes?”

“No! They poisoned him!”

“Poisoned him?” Ned asked, “What did they poison him with?”

“The tears! The tears of lys!”

Ned nodded. This was no new news. He looked to the stands, where many a lord looked confused.
Petyr Baelish on the other hand, looked very nervous. This was beginning to strike close to home.

“And how do you know all this?” Ned asked.

“Petyr told me.”

Ned nodded. “So Petyr Baelish told you that the Hand of the King had been poisoned with the
Tears of Lys by the Lannisters, you say, by the queens command in particular?”

Lysa shuddered before him before beginning to mumble to herself. Ned nodded. “Well none can
deny that Petyr Baelish had some part in the plot now. How else would he know all of these
things?”

All eyes turned to Petyr, who smiled and stepped forth. Ned gave him no chance to respond
though. He would have this man’s head, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

“Petyr Baelish for your crimes, I strip you and your descendants of all lands, incomes and titles. All
your current lands, incomes and titles are granted to the crown, and your wealth to be seized for the
repaying the kingdoms debts. Lastly, I sentence you to death. My sword, Tommen.”

“Petyr!” Lady Lysa cried when she saw him. “No Petyr! I love you!”

The lady burst free from the guards who restrained her and ran across the throne room as if she
was chased by Jon Arryn’s ghost. She ran to Petyr Baelish and threw herself into his arms.

“Petyr!” She sobbed, while Petyr Baelish tried to untangle himself from her grasp. “All I did I did
for you!” She said, “I got you a position on the council and I killed Jon for you! I put the tears in
his wine! I carried your babe for you! I burnt the wolf bitches letter for you and sent her wild
brother to the city for you! Everything I have done I have done for you! Don’t deny me now! Let
me die with you too!”

Ned had been turned around to seize Ice from its scabbard when he heard her words. His hands
were already on the hilt of his sword, and it was the first time outside of the bedchamber that Ned
had felt the wolfs blood pumping through his veins. His heart thundered in his ears as he
comprehended the mad woman’s words. His hands trembled around the blade, and he yanked it
lose with a guttural roar of rage that Ned had never felt before.

Skirling jumped to his feet and let forth a howl that rang through the ears of everyone in the room.

Ned spun around, the Valyrian Steel glittering darkly in the low light, before slamming it down
straight into the stone floor. Such was the strength of his blow and the rage that coursed through
him that the blade passed through the stone like butter, before stopping when it was a third of the
way in. “What did you just say?” Ned snarled.

Petyr Baelish threw the woman away from him. “What madness are you speaking woman? I told
you to do none of those things!”

“What did you mean?” Ned thundered at the former Lady of the Eyrie. She quailed before him,
before bursting into sobs and then fainting. Ned turned on Baelish, his teeth bared. “What did she
mean?” His voice low and dangerous. Skirling advanced on Baelish and Baelish scrambled
backwards.

“I don’t know!” Petyr cried, “The woman is clearly soft in the head!”

Ned took three steps forward and seized Petyr Baelish by the throat, before throwing him
backwards. The lord of the littlest finger fell backwards and his head cracked against the stone
floor. He scrambled backwards, away from the raging Lord of Winterfell.

Ned turned around and shielded his face from the lords present. The room was dead silent but for
the sound of Baelish’s laboured breathing. Ned breathed in and composed himself before turning
around. Tears dripped down his cheeks, and his eyes were as wild his second eldest son’s.

“Lord Manderly.” He said with a detached air that he didn’t even recognise. “Find me some
branding irons.”

Ned watched Petyr Baelish’s eyes widen in fear. He relished in it in a way he had never relished
anything before. “Lord Bolton.” Ned said next. “Bring me your flaying knives.”

Ned turned back to Baelish as his two lords rushed away to get him what he had asked of them. “I
always wondered what it would take for me to lose my honour.” Ned said calmly, his eyes
unseeing. “For years I have let it define me. It was given to me by Jon Arryn. I have worn it every
day like an armour. I guess it fits then, that as he leaves this world so does my honour.” Ned looked
up, his eyes blazing. “I will have the truth from one of you before this day is done. Please, for the
sake of my anger, attempt to deny me of it. I want to see you suffer Baelish. I want to see you suffer
like never before. I want to see you scream and cry and beg for mercy. Mercy that you will not
find.”

Petyr paused, before turning to the lords in the stands. “Bear witness, My Lords. Bear witness and
remember me. Remember me when Lord Stark is leading his armies south to pillage and rape his
way from Seaguard to Sunspear. Remember me when Northmen are burning your castles to the
ground and taking your riches. Remember me as the man who tried to stand against it. We know
what they are after. They are after a crown. The Burnt Lord,” Petyr spat the name in disgust,
“announced it for all the realm to know and hear in the damn treaty he signed with the dumb,
whoring oaf who is now our king. The only way he will ever get that throne is by defeating those
who can take it from him. Which is all of you.”

“They will remember you.” Ned whispered as he nodded. “They will remember you in the same
way they remember Rhaegar and Aerys. They will remember you as they remember the
Targaryen’s. As a warning of what not to do. Of who not to cross.”

Ned turned to Lord’s Bolton and Manderly who had returned moments ago with the items he had
asked for. He took the iron from Lord Manderly’s hands and placed them in the brazier next to the
Iron Throne. “Seize him.” Ned commanded.

The guards rushed in from the walls, and grasped Petyr around the shoulders. Ned glanced at the
prone form of Lysa Tully, before nodding at his guards. “Seize her too. And someone wake her
up.”

As the guards rushed to do as he asked, Ser Brydnen Tully stood up from his seat. “Ned!” He
cried, “You swore she would not be harmed.”

Ned glared at the Master of the Moat coldly. “I lied.” He snarled, before turning back to his
captives. Someone had managed to wake the lady with a bucket of water.

Ned picked up one of the flaying knives that had been placed in front of him. “So?” he asked,
“Who is first?”

Hours later, when the sun had set and the stars were high in the sky, Ned had his confession. He
knew the truth now, the whole truth. The lords in the stands were all pale and shaking, though
whether that was from what Petyr Baelish had revealed or what they had just seen Ned didn’t
know.

Ned reached back for his sword, which was still stuck in the stone floor. Ned’s rage had cooled
and he struggled to drag it from the rock into which he had thrust it. Eventually he did, and he
called for a block.

Lord Karstark brought it over, and he placed it down gingerly, as if afraid of it.

“Bring her here.” Ned said. His guards brought her over and forced her to her knees on the
Ironwood block in front of him. Her head was pushed onto it.

In the stands, a commotion occurred as Ser Brynden Tully got to his feet. He was dressed in the
same armour he had been wearing when he had arrived. It was the ceremonial armour of the Master
of the Moat. It was fine plate armour, forged by the best armourers in the North and had a natural
blue tinge to it. It clanked loudly as Ser Brynden marched down the stands and to where Ned stood
next to his niece.

The Master of the Moat reached up and yanked off his helm. He threw it at Ned’s feet, before
undoing the clasps of his armour and throwing that at Ned’s feet too. “Curse you.” He spat as tears
poured down his cheeks. “Curse you and all your family!”

With that he turned and stormed out of the hall. Ned turned back to Lysa Tully and glared upon her
with his blazing, glazed eyes. “I saved your life sixteen years ago. It was my greatest mistake. And
for the rest of my life…it will be my biggest regret.” Ned said. With that he brought up Ice up and
slammed it down. With that the woman who poisoned Jon Arryn was dead.

Ned turned back to where Baelish was crumpled on the floor, bleeding and whimpering. “Take him
to the Black Cells and keep him there until I say so. For now everyone else is dismissed.”

The lords and ladies rushed from the seats and rushed for the doors of the great hall. Ned sunk to
his knees as soon as everyone had gone and let out the sob he had been holding in for hours.

The only thing holding back his grief had been his rage, and his rage was gone. It had burned away
with Petyr Baelish’s skin. Now all that was left was a hollow shell of a man grieving the deaths of
both a brother and a sister, and a cherished foster father too.

Ned stumbled to his feet, and somehow found his way to his quarters in the Tower of the Hand. He
collapsed onto the featherbed and closed his eyes.

Two days down. Four more to go.

Petyr Baelish languished in the darkness in pain. Every part of him was sore. What wasn’t bleeding
was bruised and what wasn’t bruised was burnt. In the depths of his mind, he struggled to face the
reality of his situation.

For all his planning and all his caution, somehow Eddard Stark had caught on. Not only had he
caught on, but he had thoroughly exposed him before the only people who had any hope of
stopping the Stark’s in their bloody march to reclaiming their crown.

Petyr had always been proud of his intelligence, of how he could read another man like a book.
How had Lord Stark eluded him so?
He had thought he was as he had heard. He was the voice of reason in Rickard’s Rebellion, the
hand that had stayed his own father’s madness. He was the hand that had offered mercy when
others called for justice. He was the man who had defied his king for his honour. Since when did
his honour mean so little to him? Since when had he learnt how to play the game?

With trembling fingers, Baelish reached up and traced the new puckered scar on his face. It was
still tender to touch, and the phantom memory still burned. He traced the flowing fur of the
direwolf that had been branded into his skin, something that would mark him for the rest of his
life.

Not that it would be terribly long.

He would be coming for him soon, Baelish knew. Like one of the Others out of the Northern
legends, appearing out of the darkness to take him away to his death.

Death.

Life seemed so finite now. It was funny, only yesterday the possibilities had been endless.

He heard the sounds of footsteps approaching and the torchlight flickered on the walls around him.
Gruff, Northern accents echoed in his ears and Baelish scrambled backwards and into the wall. He
closed his eyes and prayed to the gods to hide him from his tormenters grasp.

It didn’t help.

Their hands seized him and roughly thrust a hessian sack over his head. It scratched and tore at his
wounds painfully. They dragged him from the cells, and upwards towards the light. Petyr’s heart
thundered in his chest. He still remembered how limp Lysa Tully’s body had been once her head
had been separated from her body.

Petyr held no affection towards her, but she had been a useful tool. He had felt a twinge of regret at
seeing the way she had been killed. It was a strange irony that she had died at the hands of the man
who had saved her life years before.

It was an irony that was not lost on the raging Lord Stark. He had heard his last words. Baelish
wondered what Ned’s parting shot to him would be. Would it be scathing, or witty? Would it be
angry? Would it hurt?

Would he have the energy to offer an equally witty comeback?

He wanted to say yes, but all the energy had been sapped from his limbs and mind.

Bright light filtered in through the small gaps in the canvas bag that covered his eyes. The sounds
of the castle were around him. He guessed it must have been midmorning.

He was roughly shoved into a small room, and then it began to move. A carriage. They were taking
him somewhere. But where?

Perhaps they wanted to make his death public like Rhaegar’s?

The thought stopped his mind. What if they wanted to turn him into a second Rhaegar?

The Green Men that often wandered the city said that Rhaegar’s soul still resided in that tree. Petyr
had no wish to live the same half-life as Rhaegar now did.
What had he done to deserve this? All he wanted to do was bring low those who had hurt the
woman he loved. All he wanted to do was kill the man who had dishonoured her. Were the gods
truly so unjust?

His mind turned back to a different time, when he was still young and his head filled with hopes
and dreams and love.

To a time when another wolf had come riding down to claim the hand of the woman he had loved.
He had stood against the wolf with a sword then, and he had failed. He had thought his mind would
serve him where his sword had failed him, but yet alas this wolf’s mind was as sharp as his
brother’s blade, and had cut him just as deeply too, though not in the same place.

The sounds of the city passed by around him, and then quietened completely. Where was he?

The carriage stopped and Petyr was roughly dragged from the carriage. The hood was yanked from
his head, and his eyes struggled to adjust to the light. When they did, he noted a few things.

He was outside of the city. The Old Gate was behind him, and in front of him was Rhaegar’s
Weirwood. Its canopy stretched high into the sky, shading the ground around it. It was for that
reason, that Petyr first missed the figure knelt before it.

It was Eddard Stark, and Ice lay naked in front of him. Lord Stark’s direwolf lay next to him, its
eyes watching him.

As for Lord Stark, his eyes were closed and his mouth moved wordlessly. Petyr turned around
unsure of what to do, and was surprised to find there was only ten other men present, none of
whom Petyr recognised. They were all dressed as members of Lord Stark’s household guard.

Petyr wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or insulted. One of the men shoved him roughly in the
back towards the Weirwood tree. “Go!” He barked, “Lord Stark wants to speak with you!”

Petyr stumbled forward and slowly made his way up the slight rise and towards were Lord Stark
knelt in reverent prayer. His wounds made him slow, but eventually he reached him.

With a sigh of relief, he sunk to his knees next to Lord Stark.

Lord Stark opened his eyes and turned to him. “Petyr Baelish.” He greeted. His voice was once
more the voice of the Quiet Wolf. It seemed the Stranger’s Wolf had gone back to sleep. For how
long though?

“Lord Stark.” Petyr croaked. His throat was dry and torn from a lack of water and the screaming he
had done when he had been under the brand and knife. “Is this where I die? Is this how I die? Am I
the next Rhaegar?”

Lord Stark didn’t respond, instead he just stared upon Rhaegar’s screaming face with a look of
sadness. After a while, he rose to his feet. “I spent most of last night and yesterday pondering what
to do with you. I want you to die Baelish.”

Baelish bowed his head.

“After all my hours of thinking I came to only one conclusion.” Lord Stark continued. “Any death I
can give to you will be far too merciful. There is no punishment I can think up of that justifies what
you have done. So my next train of thought was who would know how to punish this man?”

Petyr’s heart dropped. No.

“Look here, Petyr Baelish.” Ned said as he pointed to Rhaegar’s screaming face. “Look upon
Rhaegar Targaryen and see what my father did to him. Last night I sent a raven. It heads for my
father. When it finds him, you can be assured your death is nigh, and it will be most painful. More
painful than I could ever make it.”

Lord Stark turned away and began to walk away from the tree. “Enjoy your last days of freedom,
Baelish. My father will begin hunting soon. And a word of warning. Don’t seek out assistance from
any of your old friends. When Robert finds out what I’ve done he will put a bounty on your head. It
will be a big one too. So enjoy it while it lasts Baelish. Because there is nowhere to run, and
nowhere to hide.”

With that, Lord Stark picked up his pace and left Petyr behind him. His guards all threw one last
poisonous glare before turning and falling into formation behind their lord.

Petyr was confused for a second until the weight of Lord Stark’s words and actions set in.

He was free.

Free to exact his revenge.

Ned was tired, sore and sad. He wanted to go home and see Ashara again. He wanted to laugh at
one of Arya and Dyanna’s pranks or watch Jon and Robb spar. He wanted to see Artos’ grin and
Alaric’s frown. He wanted to see his family again.

He hated the South. He missed the cold winds and fresh snow.

Here it was always so hot.

The South seemed to have some effect on him. A madness seemed to hang in the air down here. It
was a madness that Ned had rebuked his father for letting consume him. Now Ned had let it
consume him too.

He had thrown away his honour for vengeance, and now that his rage had burnt away Ned felt
hollow. He could still remember Petyr Baelish’s screams as he pressed the branding iron onto his
cheek. He had marked him for all eternity. He could still remember the way that Lysa Tully’s
lifeless eyes had stared up at him once he had detached her from her body.
 He could still remember Ser Brynden Tully marching down the stands and throwing his helm at
his feet. He could still remember the protests of Mace Tyrell and the pale faces of the lords and
ladies who had watched the horror show that Ned had put on. He remembered the approving glint
in Tywin Lannister’s eyes, and it was that which shamed him most of all.

He wanted to put his honour back on piece by piece, but now felt unworthy of it. He had become
the second Burnt Lord. It was this city. This twisted, tormented city.

Stark’s and this city did not get on. No one and this city got on. Was it not this city that the Mad
King had lived? Perhaps his ghost was wandering these halls, somewhere. Perhaps he was
haunting the living. The thought disquieted Ned more than he wished to admit.

But it wouldn’t matter much anymore.

He was going home.

Ned put the last of his jerkins into his chest and strode out of his chambers in the Tower of the
Hand. Skirling, who had been lying next to the door, got up and trotted after him.

Together, the pair made their way down from the Red Keep and towards the docks. Ned had no
need for guards anymore, not with Skirling by his side. Ned was yet to see anyone able to hold
their wits about them against an angry direwolf, let alone fight one, let alone win.

Soon he arrived, and joined Beron Saltstark in overseeing the loading of the ships.

Not long now, and he would be home.

“Ned!” Came Robert’s booming voice. “You didn’t think I would let you leave without saying
goodbye, did you?”

Ned plastered on a grim smile. “Of course not.” He replied as he turned to his king.

Robert embraced him in a hug, while Skirling and Ser Barristan eyed each other warily.

“Tell me, Ned.” Robert asked as he pulled back, “Who should I name in your place?”

Ned shook his head and sighed. “Ask another Robert. I want no part in the madness to come.”

Robert sighed. “This is truly goodbye then?”

Ned nodded. Behind him, the last crate was loaded and the cries of time to leave began to resound
around them.

“Goodbye brother.” Robert said, his voice cracking in despair.

Goodbye…brother.” Ned whispered as he turned away from his king and boarded his ship to go
home. His heart though was heavier than ever before. He had lost Brandon to this city. He would
be damned if he lost Robert to this city too.

Chapter End Notes

I know, it's most probably not what you expected. There are lines in this chapter
though that set up characters and story-lines for the rest of the series. See if you can
find them and figure out what they mean!
 Viserys I: Tigers and Elephants
Chapter Summary

Viserys meets with the Triachs.

Chapter Notes

Ok, I get it. Not everyone is happy with what happened to Petyr. I understand your
upset, but that still gives you no excuse to call me a lazy writer. For those of you that
didn't, thanks.

Anyway, moving on...here's Viserys. Enjoy.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Tell me, what is that wins wars?”

Silence hung in the air, as the Triachs of Volantis pondered the question that King Viserys
Targaryen, the third of his name, had just asked them. Viserys had planned this speech for years,
ever since his tenth name day, when he had first began petitioning the Triachs for an audience.

When historians wrote the books of his rule, they would write that his rule began on this day. The
day when he had convinced the powerful men of Volantis to fight beside him and rid the world of
the usurper, his spawn and his attack dog.

Those of Valyrian ancestry united at last.

“Soldiers and ships.” Came the reply.

Viserys shook his head. “Soldiers fight wars for us, but they are not the ones that win them. If
soldiers won wars, by all accounts Qohor should be in ruins by now, swamped by Dothraki hordes
long ago.”

“Money.” Another replied, “For how can you wage a war without gold?”

This declaration was met with cries of assent. Once again though, they were wrong.

“Quite easily.” Viserys replied. “How did a group of poor shepherds defeat the vaunted lockstep of
legions of Old Ghis?”

“Dragons.” The third Triach said as he leant forward in his seat, bringing his form out of the
shadows. “Dragons win wars. The dragons are dead and gone though, Viserys Targaryen. Unless
you are hiding one within your empty manse, I would suggest you stop wasting our time and cut to
the chase of whatever you are trying to get too.”

Viserys smiled kindly at the man. Of the three men in this room, this would be the one that would
decide whether or not Volatis’ legions would march beside Viserys’ own. His name was Malaquo
Maegyr, and he was the defacto leader of the tiger faction, the group held two out of the three seats
on this triachy.

The other seat was held by Doniphos Paenymion, an elephant. It had been a month since the
elephants had lost the general election. Never before in Volantis’ history had the tigers had control
of the triachy. They now did, and Viserys had taken it as a sign.

The tigers were the faction of generals, old aristocracy and warriors interested in conquest.

“Dragons do win wars, but as you have said the dragons are dead and gone, though their spirit lives
on in my family.”

Malaquo Maegyr rolled his eyes. “Enough with the dramatics boy. You are beginning to bore me.”

Viserys continued to smile, though inside he wished for nothing more than to drive his sword
through the arrogant triachs heart. He had come before him offering him kingdoms, and this was
how he was treated?

“Cunning wins wars. He who holds the element of surprise, holds the key to victory. He who
knows when to fight and flee is the one who lives to win another day. It is a great mind, and a
sound strategy that wins wars.”

“It is.” Malaquo Maegyr replied, “Yet I see no great commander of men before me. I see the
shadow of a snake playing at being a dragon.”

Viserys dropped his smile and kindly act. “And yet here I am. I’m the last trueborn son of Valyria.
My entire family is dead, save for one sister. I have spent my life in exile, under the constant threat
of the usurpers knives, or worse, having The Burnt Lord show up on my doorstep. Yet, still, here I
stand, before you, proclaiming I will reclaim the kingdom that my ancestors forged. I have the
spirit that is needed to lead armies. I have the drive that is needed to wage wars. And most of all I
have the desire to win, and that desire will take me to the top of the Iron Throne itself.”

“A grand declaration.” Doniphos Paenymion stated. “Yet what wealth sits behind you? What
armies support you?”

“I have gathered around me six thousand freeriders, sellswords, exiles and knights, all eager to
claim their share of the sunset kingdoms. I still hold the formidable maritime might of the fleet of
Dragonstone, who fled with me here 16 years ago. I have secured the fealty of two sellsword
companies, The Gallant Men and the Stormbreakers, and I am in talks to secure the allegiances of
the Iron Shields.”

“How many men do those companies hold?”

“Between all three, they number fourteen thousand.” Viserys replied.

The Triach’s observed him for a minute, before turning their eyes upon each other. A battle of wills
seemed to commence between them, before Malaquo Maegyr turned back to him. “And just what
is your plan? Any attack upon anywhere south of Moat Cailin, with perhaps the exception of
Dorne, is doomed to failure. Any attack north of Moat Cailin is made nigh impossible due to the
fact that Braavos and the Northerners control the gates to the Shivering Sea. How on earth do you
expect to pass through there unscathed?”

“I don’t.” Viserys replied. “I said the way to winning a war was to have the element of surprise on
my side. The quickest way to lose that element of surprise would be to load my armies onto my
ships and sail them from your harbours. The quickest way to ruin that surprise would be to sail
 straight up the narrow sea and into the jaws of death. In this case, that would be the eastern navy
led by Beron Saltstark.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

Viserys nodded at Ser Elyas Willam, the second born son of Lord Willam of the Reach. He had
fled from Westeros at the end of Rickard’s Rebellion, fearing the vengeance of the Burnt Lord. Ser
Elyas brought forth a map from the tube at his side and unrolled it on the table in front of Viserys.

The Triach’s leant forward in their seats to better see what the map represented. It was a map of the
known world stretching from Asshai that sat on the shadow of the Bone Mountains to Great Wyk
of the Iron Islands.

“My plan is simple.” Viserys stated. “In two moon’s time, I shall pack up my armies and march
them along the Demon Road and towards the ruins of Old Valyria.”

Malaquo snorted. “Do you think that you can pull off the same stunt that the Pirate King of the
Stepstones managed? You plan to claim the lost treasures of Valyria?”

“Not at all.” Viserys replied, “Though that is what will be announced to my followers and spread
through your city. If we are lucky, word will reach my enemies and they will be lead to believe
that I am marching to my doom.”

“You want them to think your dead.” Malaquo stated, a hint of admiration in his voice. “But you
have no plans to march the demon road at all, do you?”

“Oh, I do.” Viserys replied, “But not all the way into the Valyrian peninsula. No, instead I shall
leave the road, somewhere about here.”

Viserys pointed to a point on the map. “From there, I will march through the Dothraki sea, past
Qohor before stopping on the shores of the shivering sea. Once there, I will put my armies to use,
and build myself the fleet that will carry me deep into the heart of the seven kingdoms using the
finest Qhorian Timber.”

Malquo looked at him, no longer bothering to mask his admiration. “Your plan is bold, and most
likely doomed to failure. If you manage to pull it off though, I see no reason why you should not be
able to reclaim the throne your forefathers forged.”

Viserys smiled at the warlord. “It will be trying, but the rewards will be greater than we could ever
imagine.”

Malquo nodded. “What is that you need of Volantis?”

Viserys smiled warmly. The rest was only haggling.

Chapter End Notes

Leave a comment and tell me what you think!

 Jon III: Bond Brothers, Blood Brothers
Chapter Summary

Ned gets back to Winterfell. Jon says goodbye to his Wolf Pack.

Chapter Notes

So someone asked me for an update schedule in the comments of the last chapter. To
be honest, I have no clue when I am going to be updating until I do. I update as I write.
Someday's I will write 10,000 words in a day (Like The Battle of King's Landing in
the Fall of Dragons) and other days I will write nothing (Like yesterday). So I am
sorry, but I cannot give a definite update schedule.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It felt like an age had passed since Jon’s father had gone south to serve as Hand of the King. In
truth though, it had barely been more than two moons. Jon watched from the top of the Moat Gate
of the Wintercity, his eyes searching the king’s road for the first sign of his father. Next to him was
his bastard brother, Robb. At their feet lay their dire wolves. Robb had named his Grey Wind, and
it was a strong, and hulking pup. Its fur was dark grey, and its eyes a deep amber yellow. Jon’s
own pup, was the one that was looked on with equal parts awe and suspicion. Its fur was white, as
the snow that fell down upon the city even now. Its eyes though were what made the Wolf truly
disconcerting. They were blood red. The Wolf was an albino. In the north such people and animals
were considered to be ‘kissed by the Old Gods.’

The White Wolf was a sign, a harbinger of war and a portent of death. Its arrival heralded the end
of one age and the beginning of another.

Jon had named his direwolf Ghost. It was quiet, chilling so, and Jon didn’t think he had ever heard
it make a sound. It had never growled, never howled, never even barked. Even when it walked its
footfalls left no echo behind.

When his Uncle Benjen has first ridden in the gates clutching the White Wolf in his arms, Jon had
felt the weight of 300 years of waiting and hoping upon his shoulders. He had felt that weight even
more when Uncle Benjen had thrust the Wolf pup into his arms and declared it his.

At first Jon had refused, scared of the responsibility that came with accepting such an animal as a
companion. In the end though, the choice wasn’t made by Jon, or Uncle Benjen or even his lord
father. The other Wolf pups had gone to his other siblings and Ghost had stayed by his side. As the
days wore on, it became clear that Ghost had chosen Jon, and as much as Jon didn’t want to he was
forced to bear the weight of a nation’s expectations upon his shoulders.

Jon could still remember the reactions his pack brothers had shown when he had first walked into
the Wolf Fort with Ghost by his side. His brothers had been training in the yard, the ring of stell
echoing around them. Gradually though, the ring of steel had died down and was replaced by
silence. Asher Forrester, gods curse his foolish soul, had been the first to fall to his knees. And then
the rest of the fools had followed in his example.

“We will be crowning no kings today”, Jon had told them as he had hauled Asher to his feet and
boxed him about the ears. That had been the end of all the discussions of the White Wolf. In front
of Jon at least.

Jon turned his gaze to the east, where he saw the lines of tents neatly erected. They were the tents
of the men that had been selected to go North of the Wall with Jon. There were three hundred
Weirwood Warriors, and four hundred Winter Wolves. At the wall, they would be joined by three
hundred brothers of the Night’s Watch, before they would march into the Haunted Forest to find
and break the wildling hosts.

Furthermore, Uncle Benjen had sent his most trusted man, Qhorin Halfhand, back to Hardhome to
gather one hundred men of his own garrison. They were men that knew the lands beyond the wall
better than all but the wildlings themselves, and the wildings had lived in those lands since the
days of Bran the Builder, when the Wall had first been built.

“Brother.” Robb said, as he grasped his arm. “You are brooding again.”

“I am.” Jon said with a wry grin. “Heavy lies the crown.”

Robb frowned at him. “You should not jest of such things. Especially with the way the world has
been spinning lately.”

Jon nodded in agreenace. “You are right brother, but if I don’t jest about such things, I fear I will
lose my mind. The last half-year has been the maddest half year I can ever remember. Starks are in
the south, and I fear for their safety. Who would not? Every time a Stark goes south, only two
things seem to happen.”

“And what are they?” Robb asked.

“Either winter comes…or war.”

“Winter is always coming.” Robb replied. “They are the words of our house.”

“It has been a long summer though. The smallfolk whisper that it means a long winter is coming.”

“You listen to the smallfolk too much.” Robb replied. “You need to learn to live and laugh a bit
more.”

“I need to listen to them, Robb. I have sworn to protect them, and defend them from that which
would harm them, whether it be winter or an invading army.”

“All you Starks are the same.” Robb exclaimed, “You all so damn grim!”

Jon’s eyes caught movement on the horizon. “Father is here.”

Both boys turned away from each other and looked down the length of the King’s Road. Sure
enough, in the far distance, the first sign of grey banners could be seen. At Robb’s feet, Grey Wind
leapt to his feet and thrust his front paws onto the parapets so he could see over. He titled back his
head and howled. In answer the city erupted as the wolves of the city watch and those that lived in
the Grey Fort answered the call. After a pause, a howl greater than them all answered. It was the
howl of skirling, his father’s dire wolf.

Jon could see the wolf now, trotting along at his father’s side. His father rode at the head of the
column, flanked by the lords that had not yet left his retinue. Jon remembered the day his father
had left like it was yesterday. Lords from all over the North had come to join the retinue that would
fall upon King’s Landing for the second hour of the wolf.

Jon had watched the lords leave, and they had outnumbered the size of the host that was gathered
outside of his walls now. Over one thousand men had gone to King’s Landing, and for what?

If Jon had have been in his father’s position he would have told the fat king no. And Jon still didn’t
understand why his father had said yes. What gains did it bring to House Stark? The South took
and didn’t give. It was as well-known as the fact that the snow was white and the sky was blue.

His father had spoken of vengeance, of reminding the south of what exactly it was that the North
was. His father had clearly still been mourning the loss of his foster father. Jon Arryn was no doubt
a great man, and Jon was forever thankful that he had stood by his father when he had, but justice
for Jon Arryn did not come before the North, and Jon feared that was what his father had done.

Though none dared murmur these thoughts in front of his father, or even him, the whispers were
going around. Robb had heard them and told him. A Snow could go where a Stark couldn’t. A
Snow heard what a Stark didn’t. A Snow was a crutch, yes, but it was also a third hand. It
depended on what you made of the situation. And for Robb, it had always been a third hand, and
never a crutch.

Thinking such thoughts led Jon to think of the one bastard who somehow seemed to be able to see
it as a crutch and a third hand simultaneously. Torrhen Snow. The Pirate King of the Stepstones
and sometimes friend of Winterfell.

Jon still missed the company of the pack brothers that had gone with him. From Allard Seaworth to
the four bastard and three trueborn sons of Lord Alaric Whitestark. In total forty pack brothers had
gone with Torrhen when he had fled the North in a blaze of glory, stealing the greatest ship to have
ever been built and burning the shipyards that had built it to the grounds as he had left.

He was the only bastard Jon had ever known to have both revelled in and despised his birthhood. In
the end, it was the mystery of his mother that was said to have driven him to do what he had done.
He had been four when he had first asked his lordly father for his mother’s name, and he had been
eight when he had given up on asking and decided to do something about it instead. Torrhen was
both the bastard usurper of the South and the bastard pack brother of the North. He was a good
man doing evil things, or an evil man doing good things. It all depended on who you asked.

“We should go.” Robb said as his father drew to within shouting distance of the gate. Jon nodded
and pulled himself from his own thoughts. Together, bastard and trueborn descended from the top
of the gate house and out onto the kingsroad.

Their father was passing through the gate when Jon and Robb finally made the bottom. The first
thing that Jon noticed about his father was how haggard he looked. His cheekbones were
prominent and his eyes were hollow.

He smiled softly when he saw his sons. Jon didn’t smile back. Instead he made his way to him and
enveloped him in a hug. “Was it worth it?” He asked his father. He didn’t say it maliciously, nor
with ill intent.

His father didn’t respond, just pulled him closer. After a second in his father’s arms, his father
released him and stepped back.

“Where is your mother?” He asked.

“She’s still in Winterfell.” Jon replied, “With Alaric, Arya and Dyanna. Artos has gone hunting
with Theon.”

Theon Greyjoy was the best bowman in the Pack by a long shot. None could hope to compete with
him, just as none could hope to compete with Gendry and a Warhammer. To be fair though,
Gendry’s strength was ungodly, and a simple log could become a battering ram in his hands.

Theon’s skill though had come from a mix of natural talent and practice. Theon had spent nights
and days honing his skill, until he was as good as the best, and better than the rest. Theon would
have easily been one of the most likeable people within the Wolf Pack.

Being the third born son of Balon Greyjoy, the weight of responsibility did not rest heavy upon his
shoulders, yet there was still a solemnity about him when it was required of him. He was quick to
laugh, and quicker to defend a brother. Jon knew of Theon’s relationship with his trueborn brothers
and it was not one that Jon hoped to mimic with his own.

It was why Theon loved the Wolf Pack so much. To him, they were more brothers than his own
had been. Theon would have been content to spend the rest of his life in the North and Jon was
more than tempted to grant him a keep somewhere on the Stoney Shore.

They were thoughts for tomorrow though, and Jon was meant to be focused on the now. As his
father remounted his horse, Jon turned to his squire, young Garth Mormont, the son of Jorah
Mormont and Lynesse Hightower and called him over. “Go to the camps and tell them to begin to
pack up. We will be leaving at first light tomorrow.”

Garth nodded and rushed away to do his bidding. He was a good squire, and Jon appreciated the
values that had been hammered into him. He was loyal, and able and a devil with a mace to boot.

Jon turned back to Robb as his father rode away. “Gather the Wolf Pack. Tonight we shall feast. I
fear this is the end of the road for us. Tonight shall be my last goodbye before I ride to the Wall.”

Robb nodded and jumped upon his own horse, before spurring off to the Wolf Fort. Grey Wind
bounded after him, his sleek form a grey blur. Jon climbed upon his own horse, before trotting
after his father.

When darkness fell, Jon returned from his father’s council chambers to find the Wolf Fort brightly
lit, and the sounds of cheering men resonating from within. As he passed through the gate, he
noted that it was not guarded by his own men. Rather, the guards were dressed in the grey and
white livery of his father’s guards. Clearly his father had decided to give the Wolf Pack a night off
to celebrate what could be their last night together. Once he reached the small hall, Jon was met
with the sight and sound of his life for the past eleven years.

The boys he had been raised with, the boys he considered brothers, were gathered around the tables
and benches laughing and jeering at each other while consuming copious amounts of food and ale.
Jon smiled at the sight, and lingered in the doorway taking it all in.

“Jon!” Theon cried as he leapt up from his seat as he noticed him. He embraced him in a tight bear
hug, before whirling around and lifting his already three quarters empty ale horn in the air. “A
toast!” He called as he jumped on the table, “A toast!”

“A toast!” The other boys cried as he they hefted their own. Robb appeared out of the masses and
thrust a horn of ale into Jon’s hands.

“To Jon Stark!” Theon cried, “The man who led the greatest Wolf Pack to ever grace these halls!”
Theon’s toast was met with a roar of agreement. The boys clashed their horns together before
taking a large swallow. The night wore on, and the Wolf Pack celebrated the end of an age for all
of them. Jon grew and sadder as he beheld his pack brothers, the ones not given to him by blood,
but given to him by bonds.

As the moon grew high in the sky Jon got to his feet from his place at the head of the table and
thumped his horn upon the table. “Silence!” He called, “I have some words I want to share.”

Around him the hubbub of conversation died down and Jon felt the weight of his pack’s gaze upon
him.

“I look out upon us today, and I can’t help but remember what it was like the first time we were
gathered together. Do you remember? I certainly do. The thing I remember most was the
overwhelming fear that pervaded my entire being. I had three brothers, I told my mother, what did I
need more for?

“Every day since that day though, I thank the gods for the brothers they gave to me in this fort. It
started, as most troublesome things do, with Asher Forrester.”

Asher jumped up in his horrible gaudy coat and set his foot upon the table like a conquer of old.
He nodded proudly, before being felled by an ox head thrown from across the room by Matthos
Seaworth. He tumbled to the ground in a heap of furs, limbs and blonde hair. As always, everyone
burst out laughing at him, even Jon.

“This good man!” Jon called as he reached over and helped Asher to his feet, “This stupid jester,
came up to me and Robb and started casually talking about the beauty of his older sibling. How
this older sibling would make a fine Lady of Winterfell. Well, as I found out five minutes later,
Asher’s older sibling was a male, and none too happy at being sold as the next Lady of Winterfell.
The ensuing fistfight was legendary. The only other fist fight as heated as that one are the ones
between Brynden Bloodstark and the Smalljon every second day.”

Laughter rang throughout the room.

“It was then, as I watched Asher and Rodrick trade blows, and laughed so hard that I fell over, that
I first had the thought that my new brothers might not be so bad after all. And sure enough, over
the years each and every one of you has proven yourselves to me, as both boys I am proud to call
men, and as men I am proud to call brothers.”

Jon swallowed the rising lump in his throat.

“I will admit to you today brothers that the same fear that gripped me so long ago, grips me once
more today. It is, as I have come to realise, the fear of the unknown. It is a fear that can strike us
deep, and paralyse us. As men of the North though, it is our duty to fight this fear and accept the
change that comes. Dread it, run from it, change is always inevitable. I look at all of your faces
today and I see the men that will bring change to the North. I see Warriors and admirals. I see lords
and high chancellors. Before me is the next Lord Commander of the Nights Watch and the next
Captain General of the Company of the Rose. Perhaps even the next Lord Beyond the Wall sits
before me.

With that being said though, so too do dead men sit before me. Reality is harsh, my brothers, and
the North is harsher than most. Winter comes and with it does death. Many men will die before
their hair turns grey and their skin withered by time.

So look around you, look at your brothers, not the ones that are bound to you by blood, but the ones
 that bound to you by the bonds of shared hardships.

Bonds that can only be forged when your seven and shivering in the Wolfswood next to a damp
fire that seems to be giving off more smoke than heat.”

At this his bond brothers laughed. The memory now was fond, but at the time it had left them
cursing each other for letting the Wolf Fort get dirty.

“Bonds that can only be forged through living through the same midnight raids from Jory Cassel
and Thorin Oakenstark.”

Up the back, Jory jumped to his feet with a cheer.

The boys jeered at him and threw the food around them at him. Jory ducked away and Jon smiled
at him.

“Remember those brothers, for not all of us will see the rising sun. Remember those bonds, for
those bonds have made us true brothers, brothers that would lay down our lives for each other. But
look around, for when the sun rises tomorrow you don’t know who will still be by your side. If the
gods are willing, then we shall all be there, but our gods have a penchant for cruel reality, rather
than pleasant illusions. On the morrow I shall leave for the wall with some of you. Others will go
back to their ancestral homes while others go to seek honour and glory in the wider world.
Wherever you go though, remember these times and look back on them fondly. And know that if
you ever have need me, or any of the brothers in this room, know you only must call and I will
come and I will give my all for you, even if that all is my life.”

Chapter End Notes

Leave a comment and let me know what you think.

 Eddard V: Home Bitter Home
Chapter Summary

Ned gets home.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Ned strode down the hallways of his ancestral home, towards his personal chambers. He had left
Jon behind long ago, and even organised for the Wolf Pack to have the night off, considering it
would be their last together.

The journey north from the capital had been miserable for Ned. He was ashamed to admit that
more than once he had left his sorrows behind in the bottom of a bottle. In King’s Landing Robert
was getting on with the running of his kingdom. He had named the new Lord of the Eyrie, Denys
Arryn, as his hand. Denys had two children with his wife, Alys Arryn, a boy and a girl. The boy’s
name was Ronnel, and he was of the same age as Robb and Jon. The girl’s name was Sharra, she
was rumoured to be a beauty and she had been called to the capital along with her mother.
Whispers were emerging of a possible betrothal between her and the crown prince, Joffrey. Ned
pitied the girl immensely.

Robert himself had changed since his visit to Winterfell. Even though he was no longer obligated
to stay away from the wine and whores, he still did according to the men that Ned had left in the
city. He spent his days in the sparring yard with Barristan Selmy or Mark Ryswell, and had
supposedly even visited Cersei’s chambers. She had refused him of course, but at least he was
trying. It was a small glimmer of hope in an otherwise dark world.

He finally made it to the doors of his own chambers, and briefly paused. He knew his wife waited
within. With a nervous swallow, he placed his hands on the doorknob and opened the door.

The second she saw him her face lit up in a smile that still entranced him, even to this day, so many
years after he had first seen it. He had never felt so unworthy of her love more than he did now. He
was coming before her a broken man once more. He was coming before her with bloody hands and
without his honour. And yet still she smiled at him.

“Ned!” She half sobbed as she threw herself into his arms. “You’re back! I was so worried.”

She wrapped her arms around him, and Ned wanted to do the same, but something in him stopped
him from doing so.

“Ned?” She asked, “What’s wrong?”

Ned frowned and disentangled himself from her grasp before making his way over to the cabinet
where he kept his drinks. He fumbled around before finding the bottle he was looking for. It was
strong stuff. Rollick Redstark had invented the drink back in 165A.C. Ned didn’t even bother with
a cup. He swigged it straight from the bottle. It burned as it made its way down his throat and into
his stomach.

“Ned.” Ashara said, and he heard the warning in her voice. Clearly she was not very impressed.
“How did you go in the South?”

In response Ned took another swig of his drink. Memories of Lysa’s lifeblood upon the floor
flashed in his mind’s eye and he screwed his eyes shut. He was rudely interrupted when something
smashed into the bottle at his lips and sent it crashing to the floor. Ned opened his eyes and saw
Ashara standing were he had left her, though her arm was raised and a book was lying on the floor
next to the bottle.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” She asked, her eyes blazing with fury.

Ned collapsed into a chair and buried his head in his hands. “Everything that ever went wrong…
was never meant to happen.”

“What?” Ashara asked, confused. When Ned didn’t respond, Ashara yanked his arms away from
his face and pulled his face up. She looked into his eyes, and Ned looked back into hers.

Ned doubted she saw anything of the man she fell in love with in the ones that greeted her now.
“What are you saying Ned? Speak straight with me now, riddles have never been your forte.”

“Lyanna’s kidnapping, Brandon’s death, my father’s rebellion…it was never meant to happen.
Lyanna left a letter. A letter for my father and Brandon. She left it with Lysa Tully. Baelish told her
to burn it, and then tell Brandon when he arrived that Lyanna had been kidnapped.”

Ned could see the light dawning in his lady wife’s eyes. “The entire rebellion…was Baelish’s
doing?”

“Yes.” Ned replied.

“How did you find this out?”

“Lysa went mad when I sentenced Baelish to death. She begged to be given the honour of dying
with him. She confessed to crimes we knew of, and some we didn’t.”

“And?”

Ned closed his eyes, and burrowed his head in his hands once more. The screams of the tortured
and the sounds of sizzling flesh were filling his ears. The sight of the brand that had marked
Baelish’s face was burning through his own eyes. The stench of burnt skin and blood filled his
nostrils.

Ned’s voice cracked in despair as he described what he had done next. “I called for brands…and
flaying knives…and I tore the truth from them. I tore everything until I had the full story.”

“You mean Lysa Tully told this entire story in front of the entire court? In front of all the
assembled lords and ladies?”

Ned winced and nodded. “In a way yes. By the time we got to her conversation she had with
Lyanna and the burning of the letter, her voice was broken. She could barely whisper. I doubt any
heard a word of what she said. I know I barely did.”

“Is Jon in danger?” Ashara asked and Ned felt anger stir in his heart. Even after all these years, all
the denials Ned Stark could offer, and the veracity of his looks, the rumours and questions still
lingered.

“No. The South doesn’t know Jon. The South hasn’t seen Jon. And if any of them begin to question
his lineage, I only need to stand beside me. That should be proof enough.”

“So what happened to Lysa Tully?”

Red flashed in Ned’s vision, and his ears began to ring. “Once I had the truth…I killed her.”

Ashara looked at him, her eyes wide. “You killed…?

“Lysa Tully. The girl whose life I saved sixteen years ago.”

“What did Ser Brynden do?” Ashara asked, horror lining her features.

“He left well before then. He had begged me to spare his niece’s life and I refused him. He has
resigned as Master of the Moat. Last I heard he was seen riding out of the city towards Riverrun. I
suspect he’s heading back home.”

“And what of Baelish? What did you do to him?”

Ned’s heart burned in his chest. It pained him to admit what he had done. “I…I…I let him go.”

Ned looked up, and Ashara was looking at him incredulously. “You…you let him go? What were
you thinking?”

“I wanted him to suffer Ashara. He doesn’t deserve a quick death! That would have been all I could
possibly have given him. I wanted to give him to the one man that I know could make it him
suffer. So I sent a raven to my father.”

“You complete and utter fool!” Ashara exclaimed. “When you play the game of thrones, Ned, you
win or you die! If Baelish isn’t dead, he’s winning! If Baelish is winning, it means he’s planning
our demise!”

Ashara shook her head at him. “I can’t believe you were so stupid!”

“He won’t live for long.” Ned said. “My father will-“

“And what if you father doesn’t catch him? What if he gets away? What then?”

“My father will catch him.” Ned insisted.

Ashara rolled her eyes. “Even after all these years, you are still the same naïve, stupid, insolent
man I met at the tourney of Harrenhall. I thought I had taught you better than this?”

“Even if he eludes my father, he won’t elude the men seeking a bounty. Robert has put a price of
100,000 golden dragons and a lordship upon anyone who can bring him Baelish dead, and 500,000
dragons, a lordship and marriage to Mrycella for anyone who can bring him the man alive.”

“Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen have had a bounty on their heads too for the last sixteen years,
and yet they are still living. Indeed, Viserys is said to be doing very well for himself.”

Ashara shook her head and sighed heavily. “What do we know of Petyr Baelish?” She asked. She
spoke slowly, as if she was speaking to a young child.

Ned shrugged and looked around for a drink. Yet alas, none were to be found within arm’s reach.
“You tell me.” He replied shortly. This conversation was wearing him thin. He had never had
much patience for the games his wife had learned when she was young.

“He is resourceful above all and holds a hate for your house that cuts him deep. You don’t think
that he will attempt to see you brought low once more?”

“He can try again. He will lose again.”

“The first time you lost a brother and a sister, and your father was almost burnt alive. The second
time you lost a foster father. What do you think the cost will be the third time? Your last brother?
Your real father? Your own life? Our children perhaps?”

Ned turned around and went back to the drinks cupboard. The other bottle had spilled all over the
floor. There was no hope of recovering that drink. It was a shame. That was a good vintage. Instead
he reached in and emerged with a jug of ale.

“Eddard Stark, don’t you dare turn your back on me!”

Ned closed his eyes, before he turned around and hurled the jug of ale towards the floor. It
shattered into a million pieces and the liquid inside spilled everywhere.

“That man is responsible for the death of my brother! That man is responsible for the death of my
sister! That man is responsible for my father being burnt alive and my foster father dying slowly
and in pain! That man is the reason that these realms were ripped apart in war! That man is the
reason that so many of my friends and cousins died! Do you not think I wanted to take his head?
Do you not think I wanted to see him die by my own hand? Because I tell you now, there is nothing
more in this world that would please me more than doing such a thing. In the end though, I
recognised what I could give him for what it was…mercy, Ashara, mercy. And Petyr Baelish
deserves no mercy.”

Ned scoffed and shook his head, before reaching back in and withdrawing another jug of ale. He
took another swig, before turning back to her. “I don’t expect you to understand Ashara. No one in
this realm, no one in this world has lost what I have lost because of him. You’ve lost nothing in
almost all the wars that have come and been. Every time someone you cared for was in danger, I
was there to bail them out! Often at risk to me and my own men!”

Ashara watched him, tears in her own eyes and sadness etched into her beautiful face. Ned shook
his head and turned away from her, before laughing bitterly.

“I never wanted any of this, Ashara. I’m tired of it. I just want to go back in time, back to
Harrenhall, when life was simple and laughter was sweet. This should have all been Brandon’s. I
would have been content with taking you for wife and living in Mount Starpoint as my father
intended. We could have been happy. We could have been at peace.”

Ned felt arms wrap around him from behind, and the scent of lavender perfume filled his nostrils.
What had he done to deserve such love as this?

“Aye,” Ashara whispered in his ear. “This was all meant to be Brandon’s. But his cup has passed
to you Ned. Drink from it, and do your duty to your house and to your children.”

Ned sighed, before turning around and hugging Ashara tightly. Tears leaked from his eyes and fell
upon her raven hair. “I’m sorry.” He whispered hoarsely.

“Shhhh.” Ashara replied as she pulled back from his grasp. She looked up at him and wiped away
the tears from his eyes with the pads of her thumbs. “Come to bed with me. Rest.”
 Ned nodded numbly and followed Ashara’s figure as she pulled him through to their bedchambers.
Together, they collapsed into the furs and Ned fell asleep within his wife’s arms once more. They
were a comforting presence, but not even they could stave away the screams and blood, and the
pale faces and approving green eyes of his nightmares.

Chapter End Notes

I'm so sorry for the lack of updates everyone, I have just been feeling really down
lately, and I often don't have the energy to write, let alone write enough to update.
Anyway, next chapter we check in with Jon, I'll upload it within the next few days.
Thanks for the support everyone and please leave me a comment and tell me what you
think!
 Jon IV: Winter Wolves and Weirwood Warriors
Chapter Summary

Jon heads North.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Jon watched from his horse as the last remnants of the camp that the Winter Wolves and Weirwood
Warriors had inhabited for the last three moons was packed up, and loaded onto their mounts.
Today was the day that Jon led these men North. Under his command. Jon had never been more
honoured, and scared, in his life.

The Lands Beyond the Wall were a harsh place, and no man that was born south of the wall had
flourished there with the exception of his uncle. Jon knew that not every man who accompanied
him today would return. Men would die. The wildlings may not have been the best armoured or
equipped, but they were fierce fighters regardless. And Jon’s job was to break an entire host of
them. Jon would have loved to have Snowfall at his side, but the unusually light sword was
replaced with a heavier common steel one. Snowfall was now the property of his brother.

“Keep it Jon.” Artos had told him when he had first presented the starsteel blade to him, “You’ll
have more need of it than me.”

“I would not be the first Stark to die beyond the wall,” Jon had replied, “And nor will I be the last.
Remember who Alaric was named for. Remember who Alaric named his direwolf for. You are my
heir, Artos. That means that this blade rightfully belongs to you. If I fall in the lands beyond the
wall then Winterfell becomes yours. Hold Snowfall for me and when I return I shall take it back.
Until then, the blade is yours to wield. Use it well.”

Artos had nodded seriously, and a weight had come to his gaze that Jon had never seen before.
Artos had always been a wild wolf, much like his Uncle Brandon had been according to those who
knew him. His father called it the Wolfs Blood. In this case Jon and Alaric were the exceptions of
the family. Neither of them had much of it running through their veins, while Arya, Dyanna and
Artos were brimming with it. Robb himself had his fair share of the blood running through his
veins, though Jon wasn’t sure if that was just because he revelled in his bastardry or if he actually
had the blood.

Saying goodbye to Arya and Dyanna had been hard. Jon loved both his sisters dearly, and had been
closer to them than any of his brothers. He had always indulged their fantasies, played along with
their pranks and when the time came convinced their father to get them a sword instructor. That
alone had gifted Jon their undying loyalty, but it had made his goodbye more emotional for him
than he let his sisters know.

From the lines of mounted men in front of him, Rodrick Walton and GreatJon Umber rode forth.
They stopped when they reached Jon.

“The men are ready to march.” The GreatJon said. Jon nodded, and turned to the companions he
had chosen to come with him. “And what of you lot?” Jon asked, “Are you ready to ride for the
Lands Beyond the Wall?”

All of them were his pack brothers, each and every one. He had asked nine of his companions to
come and none had refused him, though Brydnen Bloodstark had been sorely tempted when he
found out that both the Greatjon and Smalljon had also been asked to come.

Samwell Tarly was the first he had asked, and the pack brother that Jon was closest to with the
exception of Robb. He knew his way around a battleaxe and had a hidden bravery to him that
shone through at opportune moments. A stint in the far north would do wonders to convincing
Randyll Tarly that Sam was the heir he wanted.

Next to Samwell were the only bastards Jon had asked to come. Benton Snow was a youth of
seventeen years. He was of average height and plain face. His hair was brown and his eyes were
grey. He was the son of Benton Hellstark, the Lord of Hellhold. Though Benton Snow was just a
bastard he was the heir of his father’s titles, as his father had only married once and the woman
bore him no children and had died from a winter fever long ago. Benton Snow was a fierce fighter
with a spear, a testament to his Dornish mother’s influence.

The other bastard was none other than the legendary Jorge Snow, son of Karlon Northstark. He
was the same age as Jon yet a head taller and built like a ram. He wielded a greatsword and already
had a shaggy beard on his face. It made him look much older than he actually was. He was a
likeable fellow, and Jon knew none who spoke badly of his character. Many spoke badly of the
circumstances of his birth, but in Jon’s eyes it was not his birth that defined him.

There was also the heirs of five houses present. Three of them came from founding families.
Harrion Karstark, Samlljon Umber and Daryn Hornwood were the ones Jon had chosen.

Brynden Bloodstark was the heir of House Bloodstark, another cadet house of House Stark, and a
bitter rival and enemy of Smalljon Umber and indeed, House Umber as a whole. Jon had brought
him along in the hopes of somehow fixing the ancient feud. He doubted he would have much
success but he owed it to his father and grandfather to try.

The final heir that Jon had chosen was Arthur Glenmore, one of the most skilled bowman Jon had
ever seen. Indeed, within the Wolf Pack he was affectionately known as Quiver, due to the ever
present quiver of arrows that was on his back.

Jon’s final companion was his ever faithful squire, Garth Mormont. The boy was young, only ten
years of age, but he was faithful, brave and loyal. He was skilled with a blade too, and when his
father had found out that Jon had chosen him to go beyond the wall, he had sent him the family’s
ancestral Valyrian Steel blade, Longclaw. It was a fine blade, and Jon had no doubt that Garth
would wield it well.

“As ready as I can be when riding next to an Umber.” Brynden Bloodstark snorted. Next to him,
the Smalljon sneered. “Watch your mouth, Bloodstark. I have little patience for you at the
moment.”

“And I have little patience for either of your bickering at the moment, so both of you had better
shut up or you will feel the flat of the Hardstark’s blade!”

Jon grinned widely as his uncle rode up from behind them. Next to him, on his own pony was
Tyrion Lannister. He was planning on accompanying them as far North as the Wall. Jon hoped he
would be able to keep up. They weren’t planning riding at a leisurely pace.

“Lord Tyrion.” Jon greeted. “I hope you are prepared to ride hard and fast.”
 Tyrion shrugged. “I hope your prepared to listen to me complain from here to Castle Black.”

Jon laughed, and spurred his horse onwards towards the kingsroad. Behind him, the GreatJon blew
on his horn. The sound echoed across the flat plains surrounding the wintercity and Jon’s host
began to move forward. Forward to the Wall and beyond, beyond to where the wildlings awaited.

They made good time up the kingsroad and first caught sight of the Wall when they had been
riding for two weeks. It was good time, especially for a host of their size. Tyrion Lannister had
managed to keep up with them, though true to his word he had complained the entire time. When
they finally passed into the courtyard of Castle Black, Tyrion was the first to dismount and the first
to disappear. He was off to find himself ‘someone who could direct him to a hot bath, a hot meal
and then a hot room with a soft bed.’

Lord Commander Mormont was the first to greet him. “Lord Jon.” He said as he grasped his hand
firmly and gestured for some men of the watch to take care of the horses.

“Lord Commander Mormont.” Jon replied as he swung down from his horse and greeted him. “I
am pleases to finally meet with the man who is the grandsire of my squire.”

The Lord Commander nodded gruffly. “Does he serve you well?” He asked, as they both looked to
the boy. Garth returned their gaze as he led Jon’s horse away to the stables.

“He is as faithful and loyal a squire as any I could ask for. He is a testament and a credit to your
house.”

Mormont nodded. “Good. His father raised him well then. I was worried that his southern wife
would cause him to do something funny. She was pampered that woman.”

“Your son has entrusted him with Longclaw.” Jon informed him, and the Lord Commander pursed
his lips.

“Only time will tell if that was a wise decision.” He finally said after a moment of pondering what
his son had done.

Jon nodded. “I agree. As for now though my men need food and rest, and shelter if you have the
rooms to spare. Then we must discuss the nature of the wildling threat.”

The Lord Commander nodded. “Come then,” He said, “We shall organise food and shelter for your
men and then we can get onto what you are here for.”

Chapter End Notes

As to the direwolves, I have been searching for somewhere to get them in but I just
can't find the right moment and now the story is moving on, so I'll just tell you in the
Author's notes.

Jon: Ghost
Robb: Grey Wind
Artos: Unnamed
Arya: Nymeria
Dyanna: Danny
Alaric: Walton

Please leave a comment and let me know what you think. It keeps me inspired!
 Denys I: The Hand of the King
Chapter Summary

Denys starts thinking and is led to some interesting conclusions.

Chapter Notes

I'm so sorry that I didn't upload this last night when I said I would, but I ended up in
hospital after getting into a drunken fight with my mate. He bruised my throat and I
split his eye, but we had a good laugh about it when we got released out of hospital a
few hours ago so no hard feelings!

Anyways, hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!

“They say you know many things, Spider.”

The man that Denys was addressing tittered and smiled softly. Everything the man seemed to do
was done softly. He laughed softy. He talked softly. His hands were soft and his clothes were
softer. And it grated on Denys Arryn more than he cared to admit.

Denys had been raised a warrior. His hands were hard and calloused, and his mind scarred. Varys
seemed to be his antithesis, everything he stood against.

“It depends on what you want to know, Lord Arryn.”

That was another thing that Denys was struggling to accustom himself too. He was now Lord of
the Eyrie, and Defender of the Vale. His uncle’s titles had fallen to him. That was nothing new.
From Elbert’s death in 283A.C until Robin Stone’s birth in 292A.C, Denys had been Jon’s heir. It
seemed though that the eight years had changed Denys’ familiarity with that role.

“Lord Eddard exposed many things in his time as Hand of the King.” Denys began, and he was
immensely pleased to see the normally unflappable spymaster twitch. “One of which was the
murder of my uncle by Baelish.”

Varys nodded and hummed. “And you wish to know why he did it, don’t you? Why he killed your
uncle?”

“I do.” Denys replied shortly.

Varys sighed and shrugged. “Petyr Baelish was a complicated yet very intelligent man. His
schemes often had more than one outcome and his goals were convoluted and confusing, even for
one as knowledgeable as me. No doubt he had more than one goal in mind when he killed your
uncle.”

“And what could those goals possible be?”

“Baelish has always hated house Stark ever since his childhood love, Lady Catelyn Tully was
betrothed to Brandon Stark. It only deepened when Brandon Stark almost mortally wounded him in
a duel for the Lady Catelyn’s hand. And then he found out that his lady love had been dishonoured
by the younger brother of the man that cut him open. No doubt somewhere while in the South,
Petyr Baelish intended for Eddard Stark to meet his end; an outcome that Eddard Stark cut quite
short.”

Denys shook his head. “There were other ways for Baelish to have his vengeance upon House
Stark without involving my kin. That makes little sense. What else could it have been?”

Varys looked at him queerly. “Do you know what your uncle’s last words were?”

“No.” Denys replied, no one had bothered to tell him.

“I believe all the answers you seek can be found in those few words.”

“Well what were they?”

Varys shrugged. “The words aren’t mine to utter. Ask the king. He was with him in his final hours.
I’m sure he would know.”

Denys stewed in silence and stared out across Blackwater Bay.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Varys began, “Why do you wish to know?”

Denys glared at the eunuch. “It is a personal matter, and one that concerns none of you nor your
little birds.”

Varys tittered. “Of course.” He said. “I understand completely. I would warn you though, Lord
Arryn, of the dangers of pursuing vengeance too far. Look at what happened to Rickard Stark.”

Denys snorted. “If I was even a tenth of the man that Rickard Stark was Lord Varys I would have
taken your head from your shoulders already. He has tried though, hasn’t he? How many of you are
left?”

“How many of us?” Varys asked, and Denys seized upon the opportunity.

“Aerys old guard. Those of you that were part of Aerys court and inner circle. Those of you that
were there on the day that he was burned.”

Varys soft smile soured, and Denys grinned. “Lucerys Velaryon is still with Viserys isn’t he?
Jamie Lannister and Barristan Selmy still live, but what of everyone else? How many has he
killed? One hundred? One hundred and fifty? Two hundred?” Varys looked at him coldly and
Denys flushed with pride at having been able to break the spider’s charade, “You don’t think I’ve
been watching Varys? You don’t think that all of the North and the Riverlands and the Vale has
been watching as those that stood by Aerys have fallen? He’s been patient, I’ll grant The Burnt
Lord that, but your clock is ticking Varys.”

Denys leant in and placed his mouth right next to Varys’ ear. “I’ll have you know though, that
Eddard Stark is a close friend of mine. I grew up with him in the Vale. I have his ear, and he has
his father’s. A few words in the right places and you could find your life expectancy climbing
exponentially.”

Denys stopped when Varys laughed coldly. He stepped back, and Varys seemed to change in front
of him. The softness somehow melted off him, and a hardness and cruelty seemed to enter his gaze.
“If you think there is anything,” He chortled, “That you can do to stop The Burnt Lord from having
his vengeance upon me, you are sorely mistaken. The Burnt Lord listens to no one, not even his
son, and nor will he listen to you.”

With that, Varys turned and walked away, the scent of his perfume lingering in his wake.

Denys was left standing next to the window overlooking Blackwater Bay. He cursed his old friend
Eddard Stark for leaving him to clean up the madness that he had cut free in the Second Hour of
the Wolf. He had cut it free indeed, but he had done nothing to remove it, and the madness that had
once been hidden in the shadows was running in the light for all the realm to see. And Denys had
been the one left to clean it up.

With a heavy sigh, he turned back towards the kings chambers, determined to find the truth of his
uncle’s last words.

Robert wasn’t in his chambers. Instead he was in the yards, hammering at Mark Ryswell with a
fury that Denys hadn’t seen since the Trident. The fat had melted off of the fat king since he had
left for the North, and slowly, but surely, he was becoming the Demon of the Trident once more.
His bushy beard had been shaved away and his long hair tied back in a martial bun. His famed
muscles were returning and his eyes sparkled with an energy Denys hadn’t seen in years.

Denys waited on the sides of the courtyard as the spar wound down. Mark Ryswell was faltering
under Robert’s blows, and eventually the blunted great sword Robert was using smashed past
Mark’s defences.

He tumbled to the ground and begrudgingly admitted defeat. Denys had heard that Robert was
winning more and more of these spars nowadays.

“Denys!” Robert roared in delight as he turned around, sweat dripping off of him, “Have you come
to spar with me?”

“No, your grace.” Denys replied as he bowed his head. “I have come for some answers.”

“Answers?” Robert asked, “Answers to what?”

“I wish to know of my uncle’s final hours.”

Roberts face curdled like sour milk. “What of them, Denys?” He asked, his voice tired.

“Everything. Was he at peace when he died? What were his last words? Who did he weep for? Was
his final hours filled with pained gasps or tender whispers?”

Robert turned away. “It wasn’t like what you hear in the stories, Denys. There was no grand final
declaration, no whispered words of tender love to his wife,” At this Robert’s grip around the
greatsword tightened, “And no last words of advice for me as king. I think he went half mad in his
final days. He just kept repeating the same words he had been saying ever since he came down
with the sickness.”

“And what words were they?” Denys asked, half dreading, half eager to hear what his Uncle’s last
words were.

Robert paused and looked up at the sun. “The seed is strong. He would it have said half a hundred
times in his final hours alone, if not more. The seed is strong.”

“And what did he mean by that?”

Robert shrugged. “Who knows? As I said, I think he went half mad. The bitch that he married
though, she was convinced that he was saying her bastard was a strong and worthy heir.” Robert
scoffed. “You know the boy Denys, you’ve seen him. I’m certain that wasn’t what he meant.”

Denys hummed in agreement.

“All I know Denys,” Robert continued, “Is one thing. Lysa Tully, seven curse her soul, is dead. I
can’t kill her, but Petyr Baelish, that whoreson is still alive. And when he dies it will be on the end
of my hammer.”

“A noble sentiment, your grace.” Denys said softly, “But you are a king, and you have duties.”

“Screw my duties.” Robert snarled. “And screw the crown. Joffrey can have it for all I care.” The
King shook his head. “For so long, I have lived without a purpose. Pretty much ever since the day
that Ned arrived in this city with his sister’s bones. Everything I had fought for I had lost. All I
wanted was the hand of the woman I loved, and seven kingdoms couldn’t fill the hole she left
behind.” Robert looked up and purpose shined in his eyes. “Well I have found something to fill
that hole. Why do you think I have given up the whores and the wine and spend my days fighting
and hunting? I want to be the Demon of the Trident again and when the time comes, I will give up
my crown and I will hunt down Petyr Baelish, even if it takes me to the ends of the earth.”

Robert turned away and gestured for Mark to re-join him. “Now unless you wish to spar with me,
leave me in peace. I have some vermin to kill, and I will not hunt them as The Whoremonger King I
have become, but rather, the Demon of the Trident I once was.”

The dismissal was clear and he turned away as the sounds of fighting started up in the yard again.
His talk with the king had only left him more confused than before.

The Seed is Strong. What could that possibly mean?

Perhaps he should visit the Maester that had treated Jon Arryn. Perhaps he would know more.
What was his name? Caolette? Denys nodded and set out to find him. Wasn’t he in his own
household somewhere?

Hours later the sun had set, and Denys was trembling with barely restrained fury as he stormed his
way towards Grand Maester Pycelle’s chambers. He had spoken to Maester Caolette and he had
told him that the Grand Maester had sent him away and insisted on treating him himself.

Denys recalled the words Eddard Stark had given to him on the day he had left the capital, on the
day that Denys learned he was the new Hand of the King. ‘Trust nobody. And whatever you do put
no faith in Varys, and nor Pycelle. He is a Lannister toad, and if I had more time, and a willingness
for war, I would have tried and executed them too. Yet alas, I’m all out of time, and sick of war and
so they live. Take care Denys and keep an eye on them.” And with that Eddard Stark had gone,
leaving Denys to deal with the mess he had created. Eddard Stark had brought ten times the men,
had ten times the wealth, had ten times the power and ten times the authority that Denys had. And
yet Denys was the one that had been left behind to deal with it.

What reason did Pycelle have for sending Caolette away? His concern had only grown when he
had learnt that Caolette would not have gone had it not been for the queen commanding him to
leave so. Eddard Stark’s words seemed truer than ever.

As he stormed through the doors to Pycelle’s chambers, he found the Grand Maester in bed with a
whore. His lips curled in disgust as the man’s betrayal of his vows. The girl shrieked when she saw
Denys and his guards while the Grand Maester fumbled beneath his blankets, looking for
something to cover himself with no doubt.

“Lord Arryn…” Pyvelle stuttered, “This is most inappropriate…especially at this hour!”

“Seize him.” Denys told his guards, and they surged forward and gripped him around the arms.
Denys bent down and picked up a crumpled dress. He handed it to the quivering girl along with
two golden dragons. “For your troubles and your silence. Now get out of here and don’t come
back.”

The girl nodded and rushed off with her clothes and new found wealth. Denys turned back to
Pycelle. “Tell me of my uncle’s final days Pycelle.”

Pycelle squirmed in the grip of Deny’s guards. “I don’t know!” Pycelle stuttered.

“But you treated him did you not? And I’ve also been informed that he visited you in the days
before he was poisoned. Was that a lie or was that the truth?”

“Truth!” Pycelle burst out, “He’d come to me for a book!”

“A book?” Denys asked, “A book on what?”

“He wanted a book that had been written by Grand Maester Malleon. He wanted The Lineages and
Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and
Noble Ladies and Their Children.”

Denys frowned. “And where is this book now?”

“On my desk!” Pycelle cried, “Just there next to the book on ravenry.”

Denys wandered over to the desk and picked up the book that Pycelle was gesturing too. The book
was massive and old, and covered in faded gilded script. Denys tucked it under his arm and turned
back to the Grand Maester. He regarded him for a second, before turning to his guards. “Throw
him in the Black Cells and prepare him for a trial.”

“What!” Pycelle cried in horror, and all weakness fled from his voice. “You cannot! I am a Maester
of the Citadel! I am above the political games you play!”

“If only that last statement were true Grand Maester. Now get him out of my sight and hopefully he
will be able to leave my mind.”

With that, Denys turned and left the Grand Maester’s chambers to return to his own. Before the
night was done, he swore to himself that he would divulge the secrets of this book.
 Cersei I: The Stag Stumbles
Chapter Summary

Cersei and Denys have a talk, and a Stag stumbles.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The summons had come late at night, when most of the castle was heading off to bed. The young
boy, for that’s what he was, all his protestations of being a ‘man grown’ aside, had handed her a
letter sealed with seal of Arryn.

She went alone as the letter bid, and dressed in simple hunting greens and wrapped herself in a dark
cloak to ward off prying eyes. She wandered through the halls and found herself outside the small
sept of the Red Keep. Outside two Arryn guardsman stood, ramrod stiff and straight as spears. As
she approached, the moved aside and opened the doors.

Cersei flitted through like a shadow, as silent as she could move and she found the man who had
summoned her, bowed before the statue of The Stranger strangely enough, and his eyes were
closed and his lips moved in silent prayer.

She watched him and admired him for a moment from afar. He was a striking man to be sure, with
his blonde hair, startling blue eyes and aquiline nose. His jaw was sharp, and for a moment Cersei
saw the man that had Jamie spoke of when he had watched the procession of victorious rebels enter
the city to take the throne and crown Robert king. By then the city had fallen to The Burnt Lord
and The Stranger’s Wolf; all that had been left to do was the coronation. Jamie had spoken of a
handsome warrior that had ridden at Jon Arryn’s right hand, one that the maidens of the city had
been crying out for.

She stepped forward out of the shadows and cleared her throat. Lord Arryn’s lips stopped moving,
and he turned to her. His eyes regarded her coldly, albeit sadly.

“Why here?” Cersei asked.

Denys Arryn sighed and pulled himself to his feet. “So the gods can see.”

Denys sat down on one of the pews and gestured for her to join him. She did, and sat down
carefully a little across from him. She watched him warily, and waited for him to speak. Eventually
he did.

“I know the truth that Petyr Baelish killed Jon Arryn for.”

Of all the words she had been expecting that was not it. She had been expecting some lecture about
Pycelle. She had been expecting a warning similar to the one that Stark had given her about the
balance of power between Hand and Queen.

“Congratulations Lord Arryn.” She replied drily, “Is that why you called me here? To pose me
riddles? Or to boast of your wit and intelligence?”
Denys Arryn sighed and looked at her sadly. Grief lined his features and he turned back to the
Stranger, the aspect he had been praying to. “My whole life I have been a warrior. I’ve had little
time for the gods apart from the Warrior and the Stranger. In battle, when you’ve got a sword in
your hand and a man across from you screaming for your head, well gods don’t help much. I
respect the Stranger for the souls he takes and guides into the realms of the dead. Robert is much
like me and I suspect your brother is too.”

Cersei stared at him defiantly. Jamie and Robert were nothing alike. “My brother is worth a
hundred of your friend.”

“Your brother?” Denys asked sadly, “Or your lover?”

Cersei felt her heart stop in her chest, before it restarted twice as quickly as it had been going
before. Cersei was a lion of Casterly Rock and she would not be cowed. She had done the right
thing by her house, and if this upstart sought to stop her, then he would see that Cersei’s claws
were as long and sharp as her fathers were.

“Both.” She stated. She did not flinch from the truth. Why should she? “Since we were children
together. And why not? The Targaryen’s wed brother to sister for three hundred years, to keep the
bloodlines pure. And Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two
bodies. We shared a womb together. He came into this world holding my foot, our old Maester
said. When he is in me, I feel…whole.”

The ghost of a smile flitted across her lips, and her loins and lips burned with the phantom memory
of his touch. “You love your children don’t you? The little girl you brought to the capital? The one
Robert betrothed to Joffrey? What’s her name?”

“Sharra.” Denys replied. “And I love her with all of my heart.”

“No less do I love mine.”

“All three are Jaime’s,” He said. It was not a question.

“Thank the gods.”

The Seed is Strong. Robert had told her that those were the words that Jon Arryn had spoken on his
deathbed, and so it was. All those accursed bastards, all with hair as black as night. Grand Maester
Malleon recorded the last mating between stag and lion, some ninety years ago, when Tya
Lannister had wed Gowen Baratheon, third son of the reigning lord. Their only issue, an unnamed
boy described in Malleon’s tome as a large and lusty lad born with a full head of black hair, died
in infancy. Thirty years before that a male Lannister had taken a Baratheon maid to wife. She had
given him three daughters and a son, each black haired. The gold always yielded to the coal, and it
grated on Cersei immensely. If not for that tiny little detail, none would be the wiser.

“Sixteen years.” Denys said. “How is it that you have had no children by the king?”

“Your Robert got me with child once,” She said, her voice thick with contempt. “My brother found
a woman to cleanse me, and I have not let him inside me for years. I know other ways to pleasure
him, when he leaves his whores long enough to stagger up to my bedchamber. Whatever we do, the
king is usually so drunk that he’s forgotten it all by the next morning.”

Cersei watched Denys’ face closely and noticed him blanch a little.

“I remember Robert as he was the day he took the throne, every inch a king,” He said quietly. “A
thousand other women might have loved him with all their hearts. What did he do to make you hate
him so?”

Cersei thought back on that night, and she felt physically sick. Fury filled her. What had been so
damn special about the Stark bitch? Both of the men that Cersei had wanted had fallen for the
stupid whore, yet Cersei had thought she had won, for the bitch was dead and she was still alive.
Yet even from the grave, the bitch haunted her life. Cersei’s voice grew thick, as she remembered.
“The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by her name. He was
on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna.”

Denys looked at her with such pity and sadness in his eyes that Cersei wanted to roar and slap him.
She was a lion, she needed no pity!

“I do not know which of you I pity the most.”

Cersei snorted yet refrained from laughing. “Save your pity for yourself, Lord Arryn. I want none
of it.”

“You know what I must do.”

“Must?” Cersei asked. She put a hand on her legs, trusting her beauty and his desires to win him
over to her side. “A true man does what he will, not what he must.” Her fingers brushed lightly
against his thigh, the gentlest of promises. “The realm needs a strong Hand. Joff will not come of
age for years. No one wants war again, lest of all me.” Her hand touched his face, his hair. “If
friends can turn to enemies, enemies can become friends. Your wife is a thousand leagues away,
and my brother guarding Joff. Be kind to me Denys. I swear to you, you shall never regret it.”

For a second, she thought she had him. If it was any other man they would have already been
pulling her dress from her body. A half smile, half sneer flitted across his face.

“Did you make the same offer to my Uncle?”

She slapped him. Her nail cut his cheek, and a thin trickle of blood ran down. Denys reached up
and wiped it away before inspecting the crimson liquid upon his finger.

“I shall wear that as a badge of honour.” He said drily.

“Honour?” Cersei spat with revulsion. “How dare you play the noble lord with me? You said it
yourself, you’re a warrior and a killer. How are you any different from Robert, or me, or Jamie?

“For a start,” responded Denys, “I do not kill children. You would do well to listen, my lady. I shall
say this only once. When the king returns from his hunt, I intend to lay the truth before him. You
must be gone by then. You and your children, all three, and not to Casterly Rock. If I were you, I
should take ship for the Free Cities, or even further, to the Summer Isles or the Port of Ibben. As
far as the winds blow. Already I have sent letters to Eddard Stark, Stannis Baratheon and my own
son within the Vale. You will find no friends in Westeros, and if you do the might of the Old
Alliance will fall against whoever stands for you.”

The Old alliance, Cersei nearly threw up in her throat. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Lord
Arryn was right. Cersei would find no friends in the Vale, or the North or the Stormlands. Her
father was The Old Lion though, and she was a lion too. She would not flee. She was no coward.

“Exile.” Cersei spat. “A bitter cup to drink from.”

“A sweeter cup than the one your father served Rhaegar’s children,” Denys said, “And kinder than
you deserve. Your father and your brothers would do well to go with you. Lord Tywin’s gold will
buy you comfort and hire you swords to keep you safe. You shall need them. I promise you, no
matter where you flee, Robert’s wrath will follow you, much like it will soon follow Petyr
Baelish.”

Cersei rose to her feet. Did this man know nothing? “And what of my wrath, Lord Arryn?”

She shook her head and turned to leave. “When you play the game of thrones Denys, you win or
you die. There is no middle ground. If you don’t believe me ask the kings who rot beneath the
earth. Ask Aerys, ask Rhaegar. They say his soul is still in that accursed tree that The Burnt Lord
and his crannogmen sung into existence. Who knows…he may even respond.”

With that Cersei turned and headed away, leaving Denys Arryn behind to stew on all he had heard.

The next few days were tense, and Cersei spent them readying her men, and consolidating her
power. She sent word to her cousin, Lancel, to drug the king with the fortified wine.

Cersei would do everything in her power to ensure the king never returned alive, and that if he did,
he would never find out the truth that Denys Arryn knew, even if Cersei had to draw the knife
across his throat herself.

It was on the third day since Lord Arryn had summoned her that the tension simmered and broke
over. Far to the South of the city, a giant column of smoke was filling and polluting the air. It was
in the direction of the Kingswood; where Robert had gone hunting.

And hours later, Lancel Lannister arrived on a horse that was blackened with soot, and panting
heavily. He burst into the courtyard of the Red Keep, and both Cersei and Denys were there to
greet him, along with all the other courtiers in the Red Keep.

“There’s a fire!” Lancel screamed in horror, “The King! He’s gone missing!”

Inside Cersei exalted, while Denys looked horrified. “What do you mean?” He asked, “What
happened?”

“We were hunting a boar…” Lancel panted, “A monstrous boar that was said to haunt the forests.
We never found it, but instead a wall of fire came bearing down on us! The horses got spooked and
threw us all off. The King managed to stay on his, and when the horses bolted they took him with
them.”

“Well where did the horses go?” Denys asked.

“They ran…into the fire!” Lancel cried, “The only horse that didn’t leave was Mark Ryswell’s. He
managed to keep a hold of his horse, and reigned it in. That’s the horse I ride now.”

And as Cersei looked she saw he was right. Northern bred horses were different to those of the
South. The coats were shaggier, and they were bigger and more powerfully built, yet there was still
a grace and speed about them than a thundering like that of a normal war horse.

“Were is the rest of the hunting party?” Cersei asked. If the King was dead as she suspected he
was, now was the time to move.

“When I left them, they were searching for a way through or around the fire front to see if the king
made it through to the other side.”

Denys Arryn turned around, and called for the captain of his guards. “Allard!” He cried, “Gather
fifteen men, thirty horses and ride for the kingswood! Find Ser Barristan and Mark Ryswell and
 the rest of the hunting party and help them look for the king.”

Cersei grinned triumphantly, as she left the courtyard. The delicate balance of power between her
and Lord Arryn was about to tip even more heavily in her favour.

Chapter End Notes

Leave me a comment and tell me what you think!

 Jamie II: The Fall of the Falcon
Chapter Summary

The simmering tensions in King's Landing come to a head. What will happen and who
will die? Only time will tell.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The King was dead. Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, the king of the Andals, the Rhoynar
and the First Men, the Lord Protector of the Realm and the Demon of the Trident, was dead. His
charred and burnt corpse had been found in the early hours of the morning, when the sun’s rays
had first begun to shine over the woods in which he had perished. None could mistake his giant
frame, and neither could they mistake the knife that he had at his side, a knife he had owned since
his days in the Eyrie, when he fostered with Ned Stark.

To Jamie, it was of the greatest ironies that King Robert had died by the flames. Flames had
forever been associated with House Targaryen, and in the end it had been flames that had brought
Robert down.

Around him the darkness shivered and glinted with the bodies of moving men wrapped in red
cloaks, heading for the Tower of the Hand. Cersei meant to stake her claim on the power quickly,
and she had ordered him to take Denys Arryn captive before the sun had even risen. Behind him he
felt a hand on his shoulder and then The Hound was pushing past him, his dog headed helm
bringing fear to any unfortunate soul that would stand in his way on this day.

Jamie knew what was at stake, even if no one else in this party did. Not only was his own life at
stake, but the Lannister claim on the throne. If Denys was not dealt with soon, Cersei had warned
him that he would be able to send word to his allies; allies like Ned Stark. Allies that would hold
no mercy for what Jamie and Cersei had done. Jamie would avoid the news reaching Ned Stark at
all costs. He did not even want to imagine what Arthur Dayne’s reaction would be if he found out.
More cursing no doubt, though this time he sensed a little bit of laughter would not have been able
to escape the Sword of the Mornings mouth.

They rounded a corner and came across the entrance to the Tower. It was guarded by four men,
and they were wide awake, their swords already drawn. Clearly they had been warned danger was
afoot. It did not matter, Jamie knew he had almost thrice the numbers. One of them noticed him
and his men slinking across the courtyard and smashed his gauntlet on the door behind them.

“Tell Lord Denys they have come!” He cried, before turning back to Jamie and taking up next to
his comrades. Jamie shrugged and nodded at his men. There would be no point in hiding in the
darkness now.

With a wordless roar and the scream of sliding steel, Jamie and his men ran forward, across the
final few yards and into combat with Lord Denys Arryn’s men. For a glorious and yet terrible
moment there was a scuffle on the stairs, and it cut the glory of Jamie’s charge short. And then the
Hound was there, hacking left and right and left again and the men in front of them were dead,
crumpled on the floor while their blood dripped from The Hound’s blade.
The Hound pushed on the door, but it would not budge. It had been barricaded from the inside it
seemed. Jaime cursed under his breath before turning back to his men. “You, you and you!” He
cried, as he gestured at three men. “With me! Clegane, see if you can get through that door!”

With that Jaime turned away and dashed into the darkness, the men he had selected following in
his wake. Jamie’s heart pounded in his chest and the blood rushed through his head. Nothing in life
gave him more pleasure than the thrill of a fight, when all that mattered was you and the man that
stood across from you. When the measure of you wit did not matter, only the measure of your arm.

He dashed left, down some stairs and through a servant’s door. One benefit to living in the Red
Keep since he was sixteen was that he knew its passages very well. Not as well as Varys of course,
but then Jamie doubted any man since Maegor knew the passages that well. He knew enough
though, and after pushing through another door he found himself exactly where he wanted to be.
He paused to catch his breath and let his comrades catch up, before he pushed open the door and
slipped through.

He pulled back almost immediately, and more Arryn guardsmen rushed past. He waited a second
to be sure they had gone, before pushing the door open again and sliding up the corridor. He and
his men fell upon those holding the door silently, and they did not know they were there until their
blades were protruding from their chests. There were eight men holding the door in total, and
within seconds, four of them were dead. Jamie wrenched his blade from the man he had killed and
brought the battle to the remaining guards, even as the door smashed open and The Hound entered
along with the rest of his men.

Jamie found himself caught up in battle with one of the remaining guards. Their swords flashed out
and in, and across each other. The guard made a mistake and seconds later found himself on the
floor, blood gushing from a hole in his throat.

Jamie paused and stopped to observe the carnage around him. Twelve Arryn men lay dead in the
entrance, along with five red cloaks. Jamie nodded to his men. “Take the tower. You know what
we want. Find the girl and keep her safe. Any one touches her and he will have my blade to deal
with. Am I clear?”

The men nodded and rushed off, deeper into the tower and off to their tasks. Jamie heard screams
and yells and knew that they had met with resistance. Gathering the remaining men, Jamie headed
off for the lord’s chambers, where Denys Arryn would hopefully be.

He rushed up stairs and through doors and found himself in a series of running battles with Lord
Arryn’s men. Each encounter would lead to more dead men, but Jamie escaped each with nary but
scratches. He knew the numbers were on his side and though his losses were stacking up, it did not
faze him.

Jamie had just finished killing another Arryn guardsmen when he first caught sight of Lord Arryn.
He was standing in the room, behind the room Jamie was in now. The door was open, and he could
see him hurriedly putting on armour. Jaime tensed and leapt forward, determined to end the threat
here and now.

He pushed through the men and had almost made it to the doorway when he was forced to stop in
his tracks. A white sword, much like his own, had appeared in his way, and then a man, wearing
white armour, much like his own, and with a white cloak, much like his own, stepped around the
corner of the doorway and into the doorway, blocking off all who wished to pass.

“Ser Jaime…” Mark Ryswell mocked as he lowered the point of his sword to see him better, “Why
am I not surprised to see you here?”
Jamie paused and prayed to the gods that his sister’s plan would work. He reached into his tunic
and pulled forth a piece of paper with the Kings seal upon it. King Joffrey’s seal upon it. He held it
out, for Mark Ryswell to take. “I am here on the King’s orders.” Jamie said.

Mark Ryswell took the piece of paper and broke the seal with one thumb, while his other hand
stayed on his sword. He scanned the words, before snorting in amusement. “Is this your shield?”
He asked, “A piece of paper?”

With that, he turned and threw the paper into the fire behind him. It crackled and burned and so did
Jamie’s hopes for a peaceful resolution with his sworn brother. He had never particularly liked
Mark Ryswell, but he had a respect for him. He was skilled with sword, none could deny that, and
though he wasn’t a knight, he was more knightly than some of his other sworn brothers.

“Those were the king’s words!” Jamie said lowly.

Mark Ryswell smiled grimly and tilted his head. “Not my king’s words.”

Jamie frowned at his sworn brother. “King Robert is dead.” He said, “Joffrey is his heir.”

“Is he?” Mark Ryswell asked, the hints of knowing smirk playing across his features.

The implications of that smirk stopped Jamie’s heart in his chest. He knew. His sworn brother
knew. Jamie wasn’t sure wether he should feel shame or anger. He turned to the men that remained
with him. “Leave us. Find the girl and finishing securing the tower.”

As the men rushed away, Mark Ryswell laughed, though it wasn’t a happy one, more of a
strangled, bitter one. “And just when I thought you could not dishonour yourself any further! Then
again, I guess you truly are your father’s son.”

Jamie’s mind flashed with the image of a pile of small bones in a coffin, wrapped in cloaks of grey.
He could still see the chips on the bones, where Eddard Stark said Amory Lorch had stabbed her
half a hundred times. As quickly as the shame filled him though, it was replaced with anger, white
hot and burning through him.

“Enough!” He barked. “Lay down your sword and swear fealty to King Joffrey or die!”

Mark Ryswell lifted his blade high and narrowed his eyes. Jamie swallowed. “So be it.” He said,
and then he leapt forward to battle.

Mark Ryswell slapped his thrust aside with the back of his gauntlet and slammed the pommel of
his blade into Jamie’s face. Jamie fell back, tears springing to his eyes. He stumbled away,
furiously shaking his head and trying to clear his blurred vision. He held his sword in front of him,
ever wary of the danger of Mark Ryswell seizing the moment and finishing the fight.

When his vision cleared though, he found Mark Ryswell still in the doorway, his sword held in the
same position. Had Jamie not know better, he would have thought that he had not moved at all.

It was a smarter move than Jamie had first supposed. As long as Mark Ryswell sat in the doorway,
he had the advantage. His shorter blade was much more manoeuvrable in the cramped space than
Jamie’s long sword was. Not for the first time that night, he cursed not picking up the bastard
blade, as Mark Ryswell had done.

Jamie got to his feet slowly, warily, biding his time as he thought of something to do.

“I have my orders, Ser Jamie.” Mark Ryswell explained, “and you will not be getting to Denys
Arryn or his wife and daughter without first going through me.”

“Orders?” Jamie scoffed, “Only the king has the power to order the kingsguard.”

“As I said,” Mark Ryswell said with a tilt of his head, “I’m only following the orders of my king.”

A sinking suspicion took hold of Jamie. “And just who is your king?”

Mark Ryswell did not respond, just continued smiling that infernal smile.

“Is it Stannis you serve?” He asked as he stepped closer, his blade held straight out in front of him.
“Or do you serve another?”

The lack of response from Ryswell was chilling, though Jamie refused to let it irk him. He thrust
forward with his blade quickly, yet Ryswell managed to knock it aside once more. A flurry of
quick cuts and slashes broke out between the two brothers of the kingsguard and it ended much as
it had before. With Jamie stumbling backwards, and Mark Ryswell resuming his position with
sword in front of him, and doorway over him.

“Give up, Ser Jamie.” Ryswell said, “Turn around and leave Denys Arryn and his family be. I have
orders to keep them safe, and I will uphold those orders until my dying breath.”

Jamie glared at the Northern Warrior, before smirking. “Trust me that can be arranged. Just lower
your sword and lean a little to the left. I’m sure my blade will prove sharp enough.”

Mark Ryswell snorted, before stepping out of the doorway. “My blade is quite sharp as well, Ser.”

His blade glinted dangerously in the low light. It flashed out, almost faster than the eye could
follow, and Jamie just managed to bring his own blade up in time. Ryswell’s blade smashed into
his with all the force of a raging bull. Gods he was strong. For all the time that Jamie and Mark
Ryswell has been in the Kingsguard together, Jamie had never sparred with the Northman. He was
reclusive and had only been seen in the yard with Torrhen Starkstark when he was still in the
capital, and once he left, the king.

“You know what the problem with you southerners is?” Ryswell asked as he swung his sword in a
vicious overhead arc. Jamie grunted in response as he caught the Northman’s blade on his own
once more. His arm’s shook with the impact, and his teeth jarred in his mouth.

“For all your boasts, Ser Jamie, you are just another knight of summer, playing at war.”

Another blow crashed into Jamie’s arms and this time, he felt his sword slip, beneath the savage
onslaught.

“What battles have you fought in? You’ve spent your life couped up in a white tower, in a red
keep, in a city that stinks of shit and death.”

Mark Ryswell’s blade passed Jamie’s guard and crashed against his breastplate. This was not good.
Jamie knew he was one of the finest knights in the realm. How was this man, this man who had
never been anointed by the seven oils, on par with him?

“I’ve spent my life fighting real battles, against real men, where every move could be your last.
Tell me, Ser Jamie, when was the last time you truly feared for your life? You truly feared that you
would not see the sun rise on the morrow?”

Jamie took a step back, yet he felt cold stone stop his strategic withdrawal. He ducked as Ryswell’s
sword crashed into the space where his head had been. Chips of stone showered Jamie, and he spun
away from Mark Ryswell’s reach.

“I’ve fought in those battles where every moment could be your last. I was with Rickard Stark
when we stormed Riverrun in a midnight siege. I fought at the Battle of the Bells, where Jon
Connington fell. I fought again on the Trident and then again against your own father in this very
city. From the time I could hold a blade I have been fighting wildlings and bandits, and every
single battle has always been to the death.”

Jamie spun a glittering arc with his white sword towards Mark Ryswell’s head, but it was blocked
and then shoved aside by a white sword much like his own.

“That is the problem with you southerners. You don’t know what it is like to truly fear death…and
that is why…you will always lose!”

Ryswell punctuated each few words with a thrust of his blade, and Jamie found himself locked in a
struggle of strength against the Northerner. “You know what the problem with you Northerners
is?” Jamie asked as he strained against his opponents blade.

“You are always so concerned with your damn honour…” With that Jamie pulled one hand of his
sword, gripped the knife in his belt and stabbed straight into Mark Ryswell’s groin. Ryswell’s
blade went slack in his hand, and fell to the floor with a clatter. “…And that makes you blinder to
death than I will ever be!”

Jamie shook his head, and looked down at his sworn brother sadly. “You should have stayed in the
doorway, you fool…”

Mark Ryswell fell to the floor, and began to attempt to pull himself to the wall. Jamie stepped over
him gingerly and made his way through the door that led to Denys Arryn. When he came across
Lord Arryn, he found him huddled with his daughter and wife in a small room.

Jamie levelled his blade at the Lord of the Eyrie. “Surrender now, Lord Denys and I promise your
daughter and wife shall not be harmed. You shall be treated as according to your station. You have
my word.”

Denys Arryn got to his feet, anger and sadness burning in his eyes. “I have the word of an
oathbreaker! A kingslayer! A sister-fucker!”

Jamie smiled tightly. “Aye.” He said, “It’s not much, but it’s all you’ve got.”

Denys Arryn glanced at his sobbing daughter, before turning back to Jamie and throwing his own
blade to the floor. Jamie came forward and bound him with ropes, before escorting him from the
room. As they passed Mark Ryswell’s prone figure, Denys Arryn sighed heavily. “You have killed
many good men tonight.”

Jamie went to respond, but he was stopped by the sound of laughter. He turned to find Mark
Ryswell watching him, with a bloody grin. Blood dribbled from his mouth, and a pool of it lay
between his legs.

“He has Lord Denys.” Mark laughed, “But he’s forgotten the cost.”

“The cost?” Jamie asked. “What cost?”

“I know your sister has little love for your stunted brother, but I thought you had a passing
adoration for him.”
 Jamie’s heart stopped in his chest. Tyrion. How could he have forgotten Tyrion! The only way for
Tyrion to get home was passing through the North and then past the Vale. And Jamie had few
friends in either places. He had just killed one of the North’s most prominent fighters and arrested
the Lord of the Vale. Tyrion’s journey home would be fraught with danger, no matter which way
he went.

Mark Ryswell must have seen the look of horror upon his face for he began to cackle most
horribly. “Poor little Tyrion…was it worth it Ser Jamie? One lord of the Eyire for your only
brother? I’m sure your father would agree that it was a worthy trade!”

Jamie yanked Denys Arryn through the door and hollered for his men. The Hound was the first to
arrive and Jamie shoved Denys into his arms before fleeing the room and searching for his sister.

He rushed through the Red Keep, towards his sister’s chambers, shoving any who got in his way
aside. He burst in on her and found her sitting by her balcony, overlooking Blackwater Bay. The
night was fine, and the moon was high in the sky. She was sipping a red wine from a golden goblet
and looking very pleased with herself.

“Is it done?” She asked eagerly as he entered the room, “Is he ours?”

“Tyrion!” Jamie managed to gasp out, “Tyrion is in the North! His only way home is past the
Vale!”

“I know.” Cersei replied flippantly, and Jamie stared at her in horror. She caught his look and
shrugged. “It was a calculated risk, dear brother. One stunted imp for the three of the four
members of the ruling family of the Vale. It was a good trade.”

“Trade?” Jamie exclaimed, disbelieving. “You would trade my brother’s life so cheaply!?”

Cersei frowned. “Cheap? It was far from cheap. How many men did we lose tonight?”

Jamie went to tell her, but she shook her head. “Actually I don’t care. We were successful. The city
is ours. What else matters?”

She got up and came to him, a vision of flowing locks and fine cheekbones. Her hand brushed his
thigh, the gentlest of promises. “Now come to bed with me…we must celebrate! The King is
dead…long live the king!”

For a fleeting second Jamie allowed himself to fall into the sweet realm of his sisters arms, but then
Tyrion’s mismatched eyes flashed in his vision and he pulled back. “No.” He said.

“No?” Cersei asked, her tone dangerous.

“No.” Jamie affirmed as he turned away and strode for the door.

“Jamie?” Cersei cried, clearly upset, “Where are you going?”

Jamie paused at the door and turned to glare at his sister. “To fix your mistake. To get our brother
back.”

Chapter End Notes

I have now decided to make an update schedule becuase otherwise I fear I will never
finish this. Next update will be on Thursday. After that I will upload a new chapter on
Tuesday's, Thursday's and Saturday's.

Please leave a comment and tell me what you think, it really is the food that keeps this
fic going, so tell me what you think!

Thanks for reading and next time we will either drop in to visit Viserys or Ned...not
sure yet.
 Viserys II: The Shores of the Shivering Sea
Chapter Summary

Viserys talks with the captains of his army.

Chapter Notes

A few things to clear up over the last chapter.

First: No Jaime and Cersei have not forgotten about Tommen. They did not plan on
making enemies with the North by killing Mark Ryswell, indeed his presence was a
surprise for Jaime and a hitch in their plans. Furthermore, both know that Ned is no
child killer. On the other hand, Jaime is worried for Tyrion because the only way for
him to get home is to go past the Vale. The Vale has already began to move it's troops
and Cersei and Jaime know this.

And on the Vale, yes Denys has a son...his name is Ronnel and we will see him in later
chapters.

But for now, read and enjoy.

The waters lapped gently against the sands while a cold breeze drifted by, blowing Viserys’ locks
of silver away from his face. Around him, his gathered army was hard at work, building the fleet of
ships that would carry him across the Shivering Sea and into the heart of the kingdom that he
brought his family low. It had not been an easy journey to get here, and it had been even harder
finding a way to keep the world blind to his movements.

The first step in his plan had been tricking the world, and tricking his enemies into believing that
he had marched into the ruins of Valyria on a whim of madness. In truth he had only travelled as
far down the Dragon Road as he needed, until Volantis was behind him. Then he had struck north
in what no doubt would be remembered as one of the most daring marches ever made. Viserys had
led his troops around the outskirts of the Dothraki Sea and emerged on the other side at the forest
of Qohor, exactly where he had planned to. From there the march was relatively simple. Just
straight North until they had hit the shores of the shivering sea.

It had been six moons since Viserys had marched from Volantis. Three of those months had been
spent on the shores of the shivering sea, and the time was almost nigh for Viserys to load his
armies and make west for vengeance.

In the bay they had settled at, the fleet he had rested in calm waters. The fleet would not hold for
long against any dedicated battleship but that was not their job. As long as they landed Viserys’
armies upon the shores of Westeros their job would be done.

“Your grace...” a voice called, and Viserys turned to see Willem Darry approaching him.
“Ser Willam.” He greeted fondly as he extended his hand. The old knight was a loyal and erstwhile
protector and had been with Viserys since the day he had fled from Dragonstone. The aged knight
dropped to his knees and kissed Viserys extended hand.

“My loyal servant,” Viserys said fondly as he pulled him to his feet, “what news do you bring?”

“The troops are ready to load, and the finishing touches are being put upon the ships now. I have
gathered the commanders in your tent as you instructed. They await you even now.”

Viserys shot one last parting glance at the sea before turning back to the madness that was his
camp. Soldier’s tents were arrayed randomly, and grouped together depending on who they worked
for. The sell swords were the encampment furthest to the south, but the Gallant Men would not
camp next to the Stormbreakers because of some slight half a hundred years ago, so their camp
was a little to the west. Viserys own camp, the one that held his most loyal men lay in the prime
position next to the river that fed the sea, yet close enough to the beach to make the journey for
those that worked on the ships hospitable.

The final camp was right in the shadow of the forests of Qohor. It was there that the three thousand
men that Malaquo Maegyr has given him were camped. They were good fighters no doubt, but
Viserys doubted that Malaquo had given him his best.

Viserys strode towards his own tent, Willem Darry trailing in his wake and soon entered it. Within,
he found the commanders of his men. The three sellsword captains, Donaarrio Heroti of the
Gallant Men, Jamen Xan Xherox of the Stormbreakers and Corin Vardy of the Iron Shields
lounged on the cushions near the back. In their hands was wine goblets, while before them was
platters full of the finest food Viserys’ table could serve. The men were greedy, but they were
sellswords and it was in their nature. The leader of the Volantene legion with them was one of the
Old Blood by the name of Qavo Nogarys. He was a bitter man, and consumed by his past. Then of
course, were his own loyal men. Ser Willem Darry, Ser Elyas Willam, Lord Orton Merryweather
and of course Ser Jaremy Rykker, tried and true men, each and every one.

“Come.” Viserys commanded as he strode to the large table in the centre of tent. “We have a war to
plan.”

Each man came and took his place at the table. A large map of the seven kingdoms had been
placed on it, and weighted down by figures representing the estimated strength of each kingdom.
By far the most intimidating of all the kingdoms was the largest one, were Wolves practically
covered the entire region.

“No doubt by now,” Viserys began, “You will have figured out that we are aiming to strike at only
one kingdom. Once this kingdom is out of our way and grovelling on the floor beneath us, the
other kingdoms will fall before us. This kingdom is of course, the northernmost one. The one ruled
by House Stark.”

Each of the men present nodded and turned their attention to the part of the map that mattered.
“Now tell me your thoughts on how to break the Winter Kingdom.”

Corin Vardy was the first to stir. “If you want to have any hope against The North, we must take
Moat Cailin. If we can take and hold the Moat, we can stop the Usurper from brining aid from the
South.”

“Moat Cailin is an impregnable fortress though,” Ser Jaremy Rykker interrupted, “It is all well and
good to talk of taking the bastion of the First Men, but it has stood since before the Andals landed
in Westeros. I do not think for one second that The Moat will fall. It has never fallen before, and it
shall not fall to us, no matter how much we want it too.”

Corin Vardy smirked at the knight of the Crownlands. “The Moat has never fallen from attack
from the South. From the North though is a different story. I have seen the Moat. I travelled
through there when I was younger and working as a guard for a merchant during the days leading
up to Robert’s Rebellion. The Northmen designed it so that it was susceptible to attack from the
North. That way, if anyone did manage to take it, they could take it back quite easily.”

“How to get there though?” Qavo Nogarys asked, “It is an inland fortress. We would have to either
take the Saltsmaw first, or land somewhere on the East Coast and then force a march past White
Harbour.”

“The Manderly’s would not sit there and watch our army waltz past,” Ser Jaremy added, “They
would march out to meet us. They are the only house in the North to have knights in their service.
And we would also have to deal with the Flintstarks of Widow’s Watch.”

“The gates of the Shivering Sea are outside of our influence. To attack Widow’s Wathc would be
to bring the might of Braavos crashing down upon us!” Jamen Xan Xherox cried.

“Braavos?” Viserys sneered. “Braavos will come crashing down up us regardless. The city is half
owned and controlled by The Company of the Rose. They are no friend of House Targaryen. The
key, gentlemen, is to strike hard and fast. To strike while we have the advantage of surprise and
before The Starks can gather their men or call for aid from their allies.” Viserys leant forward and
placed a smattering of ships in The Bite. “In exactly two moons, Lucerys Velaryon will attack at
the Saltsmaw. For so long he has told me that he is a better admiral than Beron Saltstark and soon
we shall see if his claims are true. His attack though, is a feint. He will pull the Eyes and men of
the North to the Saltsmaw. While he engages them there with the Royal Fleet, we shall fall upon
here.”

Viserys placed a red dragon upon the map, over the grey dot that represented the Western side of
the Gates of the Shivering Sea. “Widow’s Watch will fall.”

“And then what?” Orton Merryweather asked. “Do we march straight for the Moat?”

“No.” Jaremy Rykker replied. “We should march straight for Ramsgate and take that too. The
quicker the better.”

“Yes.” Viserys agreed, “Ramsgate will fall next, and then we march on to Oldcastle. All the while,
The Gallant Sons will be raiding and reaving from The Hornwood to the White Knife. Strike the
fear of the seven in the godless heathens. Do you understand Donaarrio?”

The sellsword nodded wordlessly.

“The rest of you shall be under the command of Ser Willem Darry. You will march North for
Winterfell and hopefully whatever host has gathered along the Maw will rush to save their liege
lords home. Eventually, you will double back and ford the White Knife, before marching down and
attacking Moat Cailin.”

“And what of you, your grace?” Qavo Nogaryos asked. “If we are to be under the command of Ser
Willem Darry, what will you be doing?”

Viserys stared at the heart of the North. “I will be paying some debts. I plan to take leave of you as
soon as Widow’s Watch has fallen. A reckoning will fall upon those that have wronged my family
like this world has never seen before!”
 Eddard VI: Delegates, Dead Kings and Durrandons
Chapter Summary

Ned makes plans for the war beginning in the South.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The knock echoed in the room loudly, distracting Ned from the letters he was writing. “Come in!”
He called. The door cracked open, and a balding head with greying hair poked in. “Are you busy
Lord Stark?” A thick Fleabottom accent asked, “Do you have some time for me?”

Ned smiled at the man warmly. “Come in Lord Seaworth. I always have time for you.”

Ned watched in amusement as Davos Seaworth squirmed at the use of his title. Even after all of
these years, he still did not like being called a lord. He much preferred to be known just as Davos.
Ned knew the pilots of the Saltsmaw loved him for it. He had seen them with him in the tavern
when he had visited the Isle of Salt a few years back. For them, it had clearly been like welcoming
an old friend and not the lord into the tavern. And Davos had clearly enjoyed the interaction just as
much, indeed Ned didn’t think he had seen him ever so relaxed.

“What is that you wish to ask of me, Davos?”

Davos Seaworth shut the door behind him and walked into the room, taking a seat in the plush
leather armchair across from Ned’s writing desk. He squirmed uncomfortably for a moment, before
reaching into his vest and pulling out something. He held it closed in his fist before bring it over
Ned’s desk and dropping it.

It was a small and white object that clattered and rolled for a few moments before stopping. When
it finally stopped and Ned managed to see what it was, he leant back in his chair. Gleaming in the
light that streamed through the window was a human knucklebone. Ned stared at the knucklebone
for a long moment, before turning his gaze back to Davos.

“I think I will find it in myself to forgive you if that is either Artos or Alaric’s knucklebone. I know
how irritating both of those can be, and as their father I can excuse you for doing that. If it was
anyone else though, Davos, I’m afraid that there is little I can do to help you.”

Davos’ face paled and he shrunk into his seat. “No!” He cried in horror, “I didn’t take it from
anyone else!”

Ned couldn’t hold back his amusement anymore, and roared with laughter at the look on Davos’
face. “You should have seen your face!” He cried, as tears pooled in the corners of his eye. It felt
good to laugh. Ned hadn’t laughed like this since he had received news of Jon Arryn’s death. The
thought sobered him, and he looked again at Davos who was trying to scowl, but looking slightly
bemused.

Ned let the smile slide form his face and picked up the knucklebone in between them. “I assume
this yours?”
Davos nodded. “It arrived at the Saltsmaw two weeks ago.”

“Arrived?”

“From Dragonstone. Stannis had one. I gave it to him when I saw him last, and told him that if he
ever had need of me he only had to send that and I would come. I said I would help him until I
considered my debt to him paid.”

“You owe him nothing.” Ned said, his mouth pursed while his eyes lingered on the stumps of
Davos’ fingers.

Davos smiled consolingly. “It’s all a matter of perspective isn’t it?” He dropped his smile and
looked at Ned seriously, though a touch nervously. “I gave Stannis my word though. When I was
still new to being a lord, you once told me that the most important part of being a lord was my
honour, and that the easiest way to maintain my honour was to keep my word. I beg it of you now,
let me keep my word to Stannis, and once I have fulfilled my debt to him I shall return to serve you
for the rest of my days.”

They were interrupted by a pounding at the door. Someone was knocking hard, and with an
urgency that suggested something was wrong. Ned nodded at Davos to open the door, and he got
up to do so. He opened the door and Robb shoved past him without even greeting Davos. He was
panting heavily and his face was flushed. Clearly he had run here with some urgency.

“Robb?” Ned asked, slightly irritated, “What is the meaning of this?”

Robb looked at him and swallowed, before he opened his mouth. “King Robert...he’s dead.”

Time slowed around Ned and he struggled to comprehend the words he had just heard. “How did
he die?” Ned asked, his voice hoarse.

“By the flame.” Robb replied, “He was out hunting when a forest fire fell upon their party.
Robert’s horse went mad and apparently ran into the flames with the king still clutching on.”

Ned stood abruptly and turned around to face the window. He could not let his son, or his lord see
him like this. He gave himself three tears and the count of five to compose himself, before he
turned around once more.

“Well then...” Ned said as he resumed his seat. “What of the rest of the realm?”

“Denys Arryn was arrested by the Lannisters a few days ago. The Vale has already begun to stir.
Denys’ son, Ronnel is gathering a host at the Bloody Gate. Rumour has it he means to march
against the Lannisters.”

Davos moves to the door. “I will go Lord Stark. I will talk to you later.”

“No.” Ned said. “Sit. This concerns you as well.”

Lord Seaworth returned to the chair he had been sitting in while Robb sat in another.

“What news do we have of Renly and Stannis?” Ned asked Robb, and Davos leant forward in
anticipation.

“Renly fled the capital just after Robert’s corpse was found. Reports suggest that he heads for
Highgarden where he means to marry Margaery Tyrell and declare his claim on the Iron Throne.”
Lord Davos frowned. “Renly is the younger brother though.”

Ned hummed in agreement before turning back to Robb, who met his questioning gaze with a
shrug. “Of Stannis we know little. He’s called his banners and has gathered a vast fleet around him,
but he lingers on Dragonstone. Waiting on something it seems, but as to what he waits on no one
has any clue...”

Ned turned and looked at Davos. Davos looked at him apologetically. “Don’t worry about my
request Lord Stark. If it is to be a war, then my place is here by your side.”

Ned stewed in silence for a second, before picking up a quill and scribbling on the letter in front of
him. He stared at for a second once he had finished, before sighing heavily. “Well this makes it
quite easy then.”

Ned lifted the letter he had been scribbling and slid it across to Davos.

Davos took it and opened it, before scanning the document.

To Lord Stannis of the House of Baratheon,

This letter and signet seal gives its carrier, Lord Davos of the House of Seaworth, the right to act
in place of and as a representative of the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, Lord Eddard
of the House of Stark.

If you wish to discuss anything with Lord Eddard, Lord Davos will act as an intermediary. Lord
Davos will be the only delegate to be exchanged between us. With the outbreak of hostilities in the
South, the North will for the time being, hold itself out of the coming conflicts.

If you wish to discuss this stance, or any other matters further, do not hesitate to ask Lord Davos.
He has the full faith of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North.

Regards,

House Stark of Winterfell.

“Go.” Ned said to Lord Davos. “Serve me, while you serve Lord Stannis. Take your ships as an
escort and head for Stannis. Go without delay, and when you get there you will be my official
representative.”

Davos looked up at him, with clear gratitude shining in his eyes. “Thank you Lord Stark.” Davos
stuttered, “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“Go, Lord Davos.” Ned said gently, “Your presence is required on Dragonstone.”

Davos nodded and got to his feet, before bowing clumsily and rushing from the room.

Once the door had clicked shut behind him, Ned turned to his adopted son.

“We need to bring Jon back now.” Robb said as he thumped his fist upon the table. “The time is
ripe for us to reclaim the crown of our ancestors.”

Ned stared coolly at the youth, before turning back to his letters and continuing to scribble away.
“Jon will not be coming home.” Ned said after a pause. “He has a duty to fulfil in the Lands beyond
the Wall. It would be counterproductive to call him and all the troops with him now. Let him break
the wildling hosts and then return.”

“The King is dead father…” Robb said coldly, “There is no need to let your misguided feelings of
endearment hold you back from this kingdom’s…no this Empire’s, destiny any longer.”

Ned smiled at his son coldly. “You don’t think I know that the king is dead?”

Robb flushed with embarrassment and bowed his head. “Apologies father, forgive me. I spoke out
of turn.”

“Indeed you did.” Ned said coldly, before turning and staring out of the window. “War is upon us
Robb. Wildlings to the North, Power hungry nobles to the South, Ironborn to the West and Essos to
the East. We are surrounded by enemies. Now is not the time to expend our own resources fighting
in a pointless war. Let those who have a stake in its outcome fight it out for themselves. At the end,
as we have always done, we will emerge on top. Now is the time to strengthen and fortify the pack.
While others waste away, we will grow stronger.”

Robb nodded. “What would you have of me?” He asked.

Ned handed him a pile of letters, similar to the one he had given to Davos. “In the South, already
three kings have emerged, and no doubt more will follow. I need eyes on those kings to tell me
what they are like…if they would be men worthy of following. Already I have sent Davos to
Stannis. You will be going to treat with Renly. Domeric and Ramsay will be going to treat with
Joffrey.”

“And what of Ronnel Arryn?” Robb asked. “Already my pack brothers are beseeching me to
petition you to place them in command of a vanguard to march south for him.”

Ned chewed his bottom lip, before turning around again. “Who is asking the most?”

“Asher Forrester, Eldric Darkstark and Roger Ryswell are the ones who are the most vocal about
it.”

“Is it any wonder?” Ned asked his son, “Jaime Lannister killed Roger and Eldric’s uncle when he
arrested the Hand of the King. And Asher Forrester was never one to flee from a fight.”

“No.” Robb said sadly, “He never was, and neither will he.”

“Leave Ronnel to me.” Ned said, “I will sort something out, but for now tell all your brothers that
no vanguard will be marching South.”

“And what of the Targaryen’s?” Robb asked, “What if they choose this madness as the time to
stake their claim.”

“House Targaryen is extinct in the male line.” Ned replied, eying the scrap of paper that had
confirmed what reports had been saying for months. “Viserys seemed to inherit a part of his
father’s madness. He marched his entire army down the Dragonroad and into the ruins of Valyria.
All that is left of House Targaryen is the Mad King’s daughter. She lingers in their empty manse in
Volantis with barely a hundred men supposedly.”

Robb snorted with laughter. “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree then.”

“No.” Ned replied, “Though I doubt your grandfather is going to be happy.”

Robb shrugged. “Who cares? He killed the rest of them didn’t he? And there is still the daughter
left.”

Ned’s blood ran cold at the casualness of his son’s statement. “His daughter is a child. We do not
kill children Robb.”

Robb’s smile fell away and he nodded stiffly, before turning back to the letters in his hand. “When
do we leave?” He asked.

“As soon as possible.” Ned replied.

“Will you allow me to visit my mother first?” He asked, “A week there, a week with her and a
week back.”

Ned nodded as he thought of Elia Martell. He thought of the gift he had sent to her a few moons
ago, just before he had left for King’s Landing. “Wish her well for me.” Ned said as Robb rose
from his chair, “And take Aegon and Rhaenys with you. I know Rhaenys is missing her mother…
Ashara tells me every night.”

Robb grinned wryly. “I can assure you that Aegon does too.”

“If you see Gendry, send him to me!” Ned called as Robb walked out the door. An affirmative yell
came, and then Ned was left alone with his own thoughts.

He turned back to the window and looked down upon the crowded courtyard. His personal guard
was currently training there, under the watchful eye of Arthur Dayne and Martyn Cassel. Arthur
Dayne was wheeling about, and sparring with seven other men. As Ned watched one by one they
fell, until Arthur was left standing alone. A savage snarl played across his features, and in that
moment Ned saw the warrior he had become, and not the knight he had been.

As Ned thought of knights with White Cloaks, he thought of the man that lay dead in King’s
Landing. Mark Ryswell had been one of Ned’s most devoted men, and a close friend of Brandon in
the days when he had still drawn breath. Ned would have trusted none other to be his eyes in the
south, and in the end, like it had for Brandon, it had ended in Mark Ryswell’s death. Ned knew
there were many within the North who burned to avenge their fallen brother. In his time Mark had
been a popular and charismatic individual that had drawn people to him like a moth to a flame.
And now he was dead…dead at the hands of the kingslayer.

Ned would have his vengeance on the kingslayer though, even if it was not to be by his own hand.
By now Tyrion Lannister would just be approaching Moat Cailin. The men escorting him had been
given clear orders. Under no circumstances was Tyrion Lannister to find out what had happened in
the South in his absence. He would emerge into a riverlands that teetered on the brink of war. And
he was clueless as to what had happened. Clueless he would be when the Knights of the Vale came
riding down from their high mountains and captured him due to someone letting Ronnel Arryn now
where Tyrion Lannister was.

And Jaime Lannister, the hot headed fool that he was would no doubt rush to save him. And it
would be here that Ned’s vengeance would be taken. Ned knew that it would do little to appease
his lords, but it would keep them from marching their men south for the time.

Ned turned to a different part of the yard and saw Tommen and Alaric sparring with each other
under Artos’ watchful eye. Alaric and Tommen had become as thick as thieves and often if you
were to find one, the other would not be far. Their personalities contrasted heavily. Where Alaric
was brooding and sour frowns, Tommen was smiling and laughing. Together, when they grew they
would be the closest of friends.

Much like Robert and I were.

Ned knew that both of them needed each other. Tommen needed someone to harden him up and
make him into the warrior he needed to be, while Alaric needed someone to teach him to laugh.
Hopefully that someone would be Tommen. Sweet Tommen, who was now Ned’s hostage. Ned
knew what he held, but he couldn’t see Tommen like that. He had protested heavily against the
murders of Elia Martell and her children; indeed he had risked life and limb to prevent them. He
would not begin to murder children now. Tommen was now part of the pack. He needed protecting
just as much as anyone else, whether that be from Lords who wished to use him for their own
means or overbearing mothers who would see him stifled from being who he was meant to be.

A knock at the door interrupted Ned’s thoughts for the third time that day, and Ned turned to see
Gendry Waters looking at him a touch uncertainty. “Robb told me you have need of me, Lord
Stark.” He said.

The sight of Gendry pulled Ned back to his youth in the Eyrie and for a second he could smell the
mountain snows of Vale. “I did.” Ned said gravely. “Take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

Gendry sat awkwardly in the chair that had been occupied by Davos less than an hour ago. He had
been in this room very little, and preferred to spend his time in the sparring yard or the forge. When
Ned’s father had first found him he had been two years into a blacksmith’s apprenticeship. It was
something he had refused to give up, even after he had been accepted into the Wolf Pack. Gendry
had been the one to forge many of the blades of the Wolf Pack and Ned knew that Jon had taken a
sword that Gendry had forged North of the Wall with him.

“I assume you have heard word of what happened while I was in the South.”

Gendry shrugged. “Bits and pieces.” He admitted. “I heard there was a lot of blood involved.”

Blood flashed in the darkest recess of his vision, and Ned was forced to turn away for a second
before resuming. “You are right. There was a lot of blood. And a lot of tears too.”

Gendry didn’t respond, he just watched Ned warily.

“Tell me Gendry, did anyone ever tell you who your father was?”

Gendry shrugged. “Not really. I never really cared. I had Jon and Robb and my brothers. I had you
and Lord Rickard and the Lady Ashara. I had Arya and Dyanna and Artos and Alaric. I had no
need for anything else.” He paused and looked thoughtful for a second. “I have no need for
anything else.”

Ned nodded, and he was slightly moved by the youth’s words. “Well it has fallen to me to tell you
who your father is.”

Gendry frowned. “Why?” He asked.

“Because the time has come for you to be legitimised. I want you to know of your past, so that you
can know how to define your future.”

Gendry had paled, and his eyes had gone wide. A strange, choking sound emerged from deep
within him. “But…” He stammered, “You haven’t legitimised anyone else. Robb is still a snow!
Will he not be upset?”
“I have already spoken to Robb.” Ned assured, “And he fully supports my decision. But you are
right. I would not be legitimising you now, if it did not serve a purpose. Ser Bryden Tully resigned
as Master of the Moat while I was in the South. A new Master of the Moat will need to be chosen,
and I have chosen you. If you are to be the Master of the Moat, you will need a name. Which is
why I wish to tell you of your father.”

If Gendry had looked shocked before, now he looked as though he had just been attacked by the
Others. “Y-y-you mean to make…me…M-m-master of the Moat?”

“I do.” Ned said solemnly. “I need someone I know and trust in the position. War is erupting in the
South, Gendry and I need a strong man to hold the gates to the North. You are that strong man.
You have the approval and support of my father, my sons and my daughters, as well as the respect
and admiration of many of the lords and heirs of the North.”

Ned sighed and shook his head, “I get this may not be what you want Gendry, and believe me I
would rather you stayed here too. But we all have a duty in the wars to come and this shall be
yours. To hold the North against those who would harm it. So what do you say?”

Gendry nodded slowly. “I will need a name then.” He said as he looked up, his eyes burning with
resolve.

Ned nodded. “Your father Gendry was a great man, and a man I had known since I was a boy.”

Gendry’s smile was infectious. “My father was a northerner?” He asked, overjoyed.

Ned shook his head sadly. “No Gendry. You forget. I grew up in the Vale. Not the North.”

Gendry frowned. “My father was a Valemen then?”

Ned shook his head again. “Your father was my fellow ward, my best friend. He was the man who
I grew up with, I fought beside and in the end…”

Gendry’s face paled as he realised what Ned was saying.

“I won a throne for.” Ned finshed.

“King Robert was my father?” He asked, his voice shaking slightly.

“Yes.” Ned replied as tonelessly as he could. Gendry frowned deeply before shaking his head like
a dog shakes off water. “It doesn’t matter!” He said fiercely, “I’m still a brother of the Wolf Pack.
I’m still a Northerner!”

Ned nodded in agreeance. “You are. And if it means anything you are still a son of mine.”

Gendry looked at Ned with tears shining in his eyes. “Don’t tell anyone who he is. Please.”

Ned nodded consolingly. “Don’t worry. I won’t. The choice to share that information is yours. But
you will need a name Gendry.”

Gendry’s eyes burned with purpose and anger as he looked at Lord Stark. “What was the name of
my ancestors? The ones that lived before the dragonlords came? The name that they had when they
were First Men like you Starks?”

Ned’s heart stopped in his chest. Of all the names to pick, why that? But his mouth, and his love
for Robert betrayed him. “Durrandon.” He said.
 Gendry nodded. “Gendry Durrandon.” He said as he rolled the words on his tongue. “Durrandon…
that shall be my name.”

Ned nodded with a heavy heart and pulled Snowfall from where he had stashed it. He had asked to
borrow it from Artos this morning, and Artos had been all to ready to agree.

“Get down on one knee.” Ned said as he stood up and walked around the desk. Gendry did as he
bid, and fell to one knee before him. He extended the blade to just in front of Gendry. “Place your
hand on the blade.” He instructed him, and Gendry did so. “In the North, Starsteel is considered a
holy and sanctified, a gift from the gods to men. If you swear an oath on this blade it is as binding a
swearing an oath before a heart tree. Do you understand?”

“I understand” Gendry replied.

“Lord Gendry of the house of…”

“Durrandon.” Gendry replied.

“Lord Gendry of the House of Durradon. I name you Master of the Moat, and bestow upon you all
the titles, powers and authorities that come with such a title. Do you swear your fealty to the North?
To protect it and guard it from those who would harm it?”

“I do.” Gendry replied, his voice grave.

“Do you so swear it be earth and water?”

“I swear it by earth and water.”

“Do you so swear it by bronze and iron?”

“I swear it by bronze and iron.”

“Do you so swear it by ice and fire?”

“I swear it by ice and fire.” Gendry finished and Ned nodded.

“Then rise. Rise as Lord Gendry Durrandon, Master of the Moat and Commander of the Maw.”

Gendry climbed to his feet, and Ned nodded at him proudly. “There is one last final thing.”

“What’s that?” Gendry asked.

Ned turned to a table off to the side and pulled back the furs that were covering it. Underneath the
traditional blue armour of the Master of the Moat shined. It had been newly fitted to fit Gendry’s
broad frame. Beside it rested a monstrous spiked iron warhammer that had been delivered to Ned’s
hands not long ago. “You need your badge of office, don’t you? And a tool to enforce your word
with?”

Chapter End Notes

We are beginning to see Jon's generation taking over duties here! So to clarify what
where everyone is going, Robb is riding to meet Renly, Domeric and Ramsay Bolton
are headed for King's Landing and Davos is headed for Stannis. So far those are the
only declared kings in the war, though undoubtedly more will be to come.

Anyway, next chapter we check back in with Jon.

But please, leave a comment and let me know what you think!
 Jon V: The Haunted Forest
Chapter Summary

Jon and his host trek through the Haunted Forest.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The village, much like all the others they had come across was empty. The map said that this one
was called Whitetree, and where its name came from was glaringly obvious to any who laid eyes
on it. A great big Weirwood, one of the largest Jon had ever seen stretched into the sky in the
middle of the village. Though to call it a village was a bit of a stretch. It was more just a collection
of ramshackle buildings composed of roughly hewn stone and wood. While the huts were
numerous they were not hardy, and more than one was leaning drunkenly in the wind. This village
was nothing compared to the villages of Jon’s homeland. Those villages were made of large houses
and larger storerooms, with wells and godswoods and half a hundred other things. The smallest of
those villages could house as many as five thousand people. This one looked as though it could
house only a tenth of that size at best.

“An old tree.” Jorah Mormont said as he observed the great weirwood while their men searched
the village for any clues as to where the wildlings had gone.

“And a powerful one.” Roderick Walton rumbled from where he sat atop his White Hart. His two
wolves tumbled with Ghost at his side, while his golden eagle flitted from his shoulder and flew
upwards and into the Weirwood’s canopy. He was dressed, much like the rest of the Weirwood
Warriors were, in their runic bronze plate. “I can sense it from here.”

The Old Bear flicked his gaze to the Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors, before switching
his gaze to their men. There were now one thousand men in their party, 300 brothers of the Night’s
Watch and 700 men under Jon’s command. As they watched, Jeor Mormont’s personal steward
walked out from among the milling men. His name was Eddison Tollet, though the brothers of the
Night’s Watch called him Dolorous Edd, on account of his dolorous attitude.

“Empty and not a clue to be had as to where they have gone.” He called, “Much like all the last.”

“Where have they all gone?” The GreatJon muttered as he clenched his hands around the hilt of his
greatsword. “I don’t like this.”

“You’ll like it even less when the wildling hosts are falling upon us…” Dolorous Edd muttered as
he remounted his horse. “If they’re here killing us we don’t like it, and now that they’re gone we
are still complaining? No wonder they left. I would too if I was faced with such confusion.”

Jon snorted in amusement, before wheeling about and looking at the Lord Commander of the
Weirwood Warriors. “Are there any within sight of us?”

Roderick Walton turned his head and nodded at one of his captains, a man whom had been
introduced to Jon as Mors ‘Cutthroat’ Cassel. An unspoken command passed between the two, and
Mors wheeled his own horse about, while a pack of wolves ten strong that lingered on the edges of
the glade they were in rushed away. Mors was the older brother of Jory Cassel, and was known for
the ten wolves that he had warged with. It was no coincidence that the banners of House Cassel
had ten wolves on it too. Mors was considered one of the more powerful wargs, and as far as Jon
knew none had more warged animals than him. Though his Uncle Benjen said that there was a
wildling known as Varamyr Sixteenskins. Whether he was a myth or legend though was yet to be
foretold.

Minutes later, Mors returned alone. “There is no trails to be found whatsoever. The Wolves will
keep pushing north though, until they catch the scent of something.”

Jon nodded. It was as he had expected. Truth be told Jon feared that Tormund Giantsbane’s host
was long gone. He suspected that Tormund Giantsbane would be found with Mance Rayder,
wherever the former crow was hiding.

“Shall we camp here for the night?” Jeor Mormont asked, “Or would you prefer to push on for the
lakes?”

Jon glanced up at the sun. There were still a few hours of sunlight left. Jon glanced to Roderick
Walton, but the man was as inscrutable as ever. “We’ll push on.” Jon said with much more
authority than he felt. Around him the declaration was met with groans from the men of the
Night’s Watch, sighs from the Winter Wolves while the Weirwood Warriors simply remounted
their mounts and fell into formation.

When the host had assembled, Jon and Jeor led their men out of the village and for the distant
lakes. “You made a good choice back there.” Jeor told him, “While the men will be upset at the
prospect of more travel, they will be thanking you when they feast on fresh fish tonight.”

Jon nodded in agreeance. “I hope so too.”

“Don’t hope so.” Jeor replied. “Know so. The mark of any leader is authority. Your men must
believe that you are the ultimate authority or they will not follow you. The easiest way for you to
lose your authority is to let your men question your decisions.”

Jon turned his gaze to the Old Bear while his horse plodded along the ranger’s trail they were
following. “You of all men would know.”

“I learnt from the best.” Jeor replied with a wry grin. “Your grandfather is from whom I learnt how
to make my mark upon this world.”

“Really?” Jon asked, interested in what the Old Bear had to say. “You’ve known him long?”

“I grew up with him.” Jeor replied. “I was in his Wolf Pack, in the days when he was still a green
boy that pissed grass.”

Jon looked on the old man with a new light. “You were in his Wolf Pack? There are so few of them
left!”

Jeor’s smile was replaced by a thunderous frown. “Aye. There are not many of us left. King Scab
killed most of them.”

Jon’s smile slipped away too, and a darkness fell over their conversation. It was Jeor who picked it
back up. “Your grandfather is amongst the greatest Stark’s to have ever lived, right up there with
The Hungry Wolf and the Bloody Blessed Bastard. Right up there with the The Builder himself.”

With that, the Old Bear turned his horse and began to bellow at his men to hurry things along. Jon
turned to Arthur Glenmore. “Quiver, gather fifty of the Winter Wolves and ride hard for the lakes.
Set up the beginnings of a camp there…just a few fire pits and send some of them out to hunt some
food.”

Quiver nodded and wheeled his horse about, before rushing down the line to gather some men.
Minutes later he and his men thundered past, headed on their way to the lakes. At the speed they
were going they would be there within the hour. Jon’s host would be at least double that time
away.

And hours later, when they made the camp Jon was relieved to find that Quiver had done exactly
as instructed. Four large fire pits were roaring away, and one was roasted a boar, while the other
was roasting a stag. Another ten smaller ones were scattered around, and a pile of fish was being
cooked on those. The host began to disperse behind Jon, off to find and claim the best camping
spots before someone else did. Jon rode straight for Quiver, who was sitting beside his own already
erected tent and fletching arrows.

With a sigh, Jon swung from the saddle and stretched his cramped legs. “You’ve done well.” He
said.

“I’ve saved you a camping spot.” Quiver replied as he gestured to the spot next to himself. Jon
smiled gratefully and Garth Mormont rushed past, with the beginnings of Jon’s tent in his arms. As
Garth busied himself setting up Jon’s tent, Jon left to find Mors Cutthroat, to see if his wolves had
found anything.

He found him by the lake, conversing with Roderick Walton over the construction of the
Weirwood Warriors own camp. Already most of the tents were up, and latrines were being dug,
while the beginnings of a sentry roster was being made. They were truly warriors without peer.

The two men saw him coming and bowed their heads respectfully. “Lord Jon.” They intoned.

“Lord Commander, Mors.” Jon replied, “I was wondering if your wolves found trace of anything?”

Mors nodded. “There are humans north of us. A few more days marching north and we will be
upon them.”

Jon nodded, before reaching into his tunic for a map of the lands beyond the Wall. He saw only
one settlement to the North of him. “Craster’s Keep.” He said aloud, and looked up to the two
Weirwood Warriors. “Do you think that will be where your wolves have found?”

“Most likely.” Mors replied. “The scent was strange. There was many women but only one man.”

“That will be Craster.” Benjen Hardstark said as he approached. “The man is of ill repute and
surrounded by rumours. Even the Wildlings consider him to be terrible savage.”

“What sort of rumours?” Roderick rumbled.

Uncle Benjen shrugged. “The man marries and beds his own daughters, and yet for all his years
and all his daughters he has no sons. Some say that he eats his sons, while others contend that he
sacrifices them too his gods.”

“And what does this Craster say as to why he has no sons?” Mors Cassel asked.

Uncle Benjen snorted in amusement. “He claims it’s his seed. That he has only ever given birth to
daughters.”
 Around Jon the conversation continued on. Jon stared north though, to where the tips of the
Frostfangs could be seen on the horizon, just above the tips of the trees of the haunted forest. The
wildlings were gone and Jon needed answers if he was to have any hope of finishing the task his
father had given him within a respectable time frame. If the only place he could find those answers
was with a man who slept with his own daughters then so be it.

“In the morning we head for Craster’s Keep. I mean to find answers and hopefully this Craster will
have some for us. Tell the men to be ready to break camp at first light.”

With that, Jon turned and strode back the way he had come, determined to find some hot food and
good company before he retired for the night.

Chapter End Notes

Jon's chapters will for now be a bit shorter than everyone else's due to the fact that for
until he reaches the Fist of the First Men, his path isn't that different to canon. It is at
the fist that stuff starts to happen.

Next chapter we hear from Robb!

Leave a comment and tell me what you think!

 Robb I: Maiden, Mother and Stranger.
Chapter Summary

Robb goes to Mount Starpoint with Rhaenys and Aegon to see Elia.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The snow drifted down from the grey clouds, blanketing the trees of the Wolfswood in a fine white
powder. Occasionally, a flurry of snowflakes would find their way through the crowded canopy
and land on Robb’s shoulders, chilling him to the bone and waking him up from his easy doze. He
would have put his cloak on, but the weather in the wood was fine, and was enjoying the cool
breeze that was drifting by.

Underneath him, his war horse plodded along dutifully while Grey Wind ran around him and
ahead, everywhere at once, and yet simultaneously nowhere to be found. The plodding rhythm was
comforting, and something that Robb was well accustomed too.

The horse he rode had seen much of the North, and even parts of Essos. It had been faithful and
dutiful and followed him everywhere, but Robb knew it was nearing the end of its working life. It
was a shame, for it had been a fine horse. His grandfather had gifted it to him on his fifth nameday,
when it was still but a foal.

His grandfather had taken him and Jon to the Rills, where he was meeting with his old friend,
Roger Ryswell. Roger had let him, Jon and Gendry both have their pick of his herds. Jon had
chosen first, and had almost instinctively selected a fine coal black horse that would have ridden to
the ends of the Lands of Always Winter and back before stopping.

Gendry had never been much of a horseman and simply picked the first that caught his eye, a
dappled grey one. Lean, yet strong, there was nothing remarkable about it save for a strange spot
on its flank.

Robb had turned to his grandfather when he had been unable to find one he liked. His grandfather
had guided him through the herd, before finally stopping before one with a plain brown coat.
While it didn’t look like much at the time, when they returned Roger Ryswell had proclaimed that
its sire was the ‘finest horse I ever bred and trained.’

And he was right. As Robb had grown with the foal, he had learned that it was not simply trained
for war, it was born for it. No other horse could match it in the jousting yard, and nor in the mock
battles they fought in the sheepshead hills. It could run for a day and walk for a night. And it was
Robb’s pride and joy.

“How much further to the inn?” A voice asked, interrupting Robb from his reminiscing.

Robb swung in the saddle to see Rhaenys trailing behind him. It was times like this that Robb was
taken aback by her beauty. The snowflakes had caught in her raven locks, and her bronze skin
shined. Her eyes twinkled with as if she was privy to some great joke that only she knew and her
mouth was curled into the barest hints of a smile. The ethereal Targaryen beauty that her father
was said to have had shined through, but it was grounded by the gentle beauty of her mother, and it
made for a striking image that left Robb’s heart more than a little sore. She was a living, breathing
reminder of everything there was that Robb wanted that he could never have.

“Distracted, are you?” Rhaenys tittered as she spurred her horse forward to ride abreast with Robb.
“What were you thinking about?”

Robb patted the flank of his horse. “My horse.” He replied, “My grandfather. My brothers. You.”

Rhaenys laughed quietly. “And what of poor Grey Wind?” She asked as said beast came rushing
out of the bushes, his muzzle coated in blood and a limp hare clutched in his jaws. “Is there no time
to think of him?”

“Grey Wind is always in my thoughts.” Robb replied seriously as he beheld the young wolf.
Unbidden, the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Something must have shown on his face, for
Rhaenys lightly touched his arm, bringing him back to reality.

“What is it like?” She asked, her eyes full of curiosity.

Robb shrugged her arm off, and kicked the sides of his horse. It shot ahead a few steps, before
slowing down again. Robb didn’t particularly like what he could do.

Some wargs relished in the power the gods had given them, and it drove them to incredible acts of
greed and cruelty. The White Eye were the foremost example of this, but they were just the most
organized of the power hungry. Some wargs respected what they could do, and they were the ones
that followed the laws that had been sent by the Bloody Bastard and the ones that fought and
served in the Warg Legions.

Robb though was of the last group, and they were the smallest of the three groups. They were the
ones who feared what they could do, and did everything they could to escape it. Robb feared the
day he would lose himself within his own mind, as he became consumed by the world within. The
dangers of warging were real and present every time Robb involuntarily slipped his skin, and Robb
loathed it.

Many a warg had been driven mad or lost themselves from lingering too long. Many of those wargs
were the ones who could control when and where they would slip into their skin, and Robb could
do neither. He would slip into Grey Wind’s skin anywhere and anytime and he had no control over
it. Sleeping was what Robb feared the most, for in the darkness when his body was resting his
mind was awake in the form of a wolf.

Behind him, Rhaenys spurred her own horse forward and caught up to him. Her brows were set in
a frown, and her mouth was downturned. “There is no need to run off on me.”

Robb forced an easy smile onto his face. “I wasn’t running off.” He replied as he raised his nose
into the air. “I was racing you. You lost, and quite badly too I’m afraid.”

The frown melted away, and was replaced by an amused smirk. “Is that so?”

Robb noted her form as she leant forward in the saddle and grasped her saddle, ready to spring
away. She would have, had Robb’s hand not shot out and gripped the reins of her horse. As such,
when she kicked her horse’s flanks, it shot forward before coming to a halt when Robb reigned it
in.

Rhaenys laughed in delight and attempted to wrestle her reigns from Robb’s grasp. The two of
them tumbled and playfully shoved each other as they fought to take control of the others horse.
“Will you two stop goofing around?!”

Rhaenys’ smile tightened and she turned around to view the last member of their travelling party.
Robb lingered in the moment a second more, before he turned around too. Aegon Targaryen was
the last of their party, and a more brooding and unhappy boy Robb was yet to meet. Aegon knew
little of fun, and less of laughter.

His Targaryen features had made him a bit of an outcast in the North, and he had few friends. Robb
and Jon had done their best with Aegon but Jon was friends with everyone and Aegon was
convinced that Robb was more interested in his sister than him. It was most probably true, but
something that Robb had never cared to spend time thinking about.

“Cheer up, Aegon.” Rhaenys replied. “We are riding to see mother. What is there to be sad about?”

Aegon scoffed and turned his face away. “Plenty. The cold. The snow. The infernal wind that
won’t stop blowing.”

“Well you’re in luck.” Robb replied as lights appeared in the distance. “The Inn is within sight.”

“Thank the gods.” Aegon muttered as he kicked the sides of his horse and spurred it on. As he
passed his horse kicked up a flurry of snow in Robb’s face. Rhaenys smiled apologetically before
racing after her brother. Robb shrugged to himself as he watched them race away, before whistling
for Grey Wind.

His direwolf came trotting out of the woods on his left, and padded to Robb’s side. Robb leant
down and ruffled the fur behind his ears. The forest was wonderfully peaceful with all other
company gone, and for the remainder of the journey Robb dawdled, enjoying the sanctity of the
moment.

When he arrived at the inn an hour later, he found a hot meal already waiting for him. The
innkeeper was honoured to have a son of House Stark in his house and had given Robb the best
rooms in the building. Grey Wind was given a berth also, and a large haunch of beef.

After Robb had eaten and drunken his fill, he retired for the night to his rooms. Grey Wind had
chosen to retreat to the outside, and Robb had let him go. He knew there was little use fighting him
in this. A direwolf was a companion, not a pet.

It was a little past midnight when the knock came at his door. Robb stumbled to his feet, and
walked to the door. He pulled it open, and found Rhaenys standing before him, wrapped in a
crimson robe.

“You can’t sleep?” She asked.

Robb smiled sadly. “Grey Wind is hunting.”

“Ah.” She replied, as though what was all the explanation needed. She slipped past him and
stepped into his room. She looked around cautiously, before turning back to him. Robb closed the
door and made his way over to her, before seizing her by the arms and claiming her lips with his.
Rhaenys responded eagerly, the tongues battling for dominance.

Robb’s hands fumbled at the ties of her robe and he shoved it from her shoulders as he pulled her
closer to himself. Her skin was warm against his, driving away the chill in the air. He felt her smile
as he pulled back and rested his forehead on hers.

“I have been wanting to do that all day.” He admitted.

“Me too.” Rhaenys replied as she pulled away and stepped out of the puddle of her robe, stark
naked. Robb drank in the sight of her, admiring every curve and edge. No matter how many times
he saw her like this, no matter how many times he bedded her, this was a sight he never grew sick
of.

Her dusky skin glowed in the low light cast by the fire burning in the hearth and her wavy hair was
loose, cascading down her back. Two brown nipples graced the top of her breasts, and a small
thatch of hair covered her sex.

She tugged on Robb’s hand and pulled him back to the bed. Together they tumbled down into it
and Robb kissed her again, licking demandingly at her mouth, with one hand entwined in her hair.
His other hand was roaming all over her, her back, her hips, her belly, her breasts, everywhere he
could reach.

Her hands were just as grasping, tugging on his hair scratching his back and running down his
arms and along his chest. She tasted of the strawberries she loved to eat, and his nose was filled
with scent of the perfume she used.

As he licked and nibbled his way down her neck and across her chest, he felt her hands tugging at
the strings of his pants. She whined and moaned as Robb bit one of her nipples, and then it was
Robb’s turn to groan and whimper as she freed his hardening manhood from his smallclothes. With
a few quick sure strokes he was as hard as Valyrian Steel.

The rest of the night was much of a blur for Robb, but it was filled with a sweet scent, and warm
and grasping walls. Robb spent himself inside of Rhaenys more than he cared to count, and he
brought her to climax with his hands, and tongue and cock as much as she brought him to climax.

When Robb awoke the next morning from a dreamless sleep, the scent of her perfume still lingered
in his nostrils, while the phantom touch of her memory still burned his skin and lips and groin.

Rhaenys herself was nowhere to be seen, and Robb dressed and made his way down to the
common room alone. It was there that he found Aegon and Rhaenys engaged in a fierce
conversation. Before them sat an untouched breakfast of bacon, sausages and eggs. As Robb
approached the siblings fell silent, though he noticed that both were shooting each other dark
glares.

Robb sat down and pulled the plate of food closer to him, before gorging himself. At some point,
Grey Wind appeared and Robb fed him the scraps off his plate. As the silence stretched on, Robb
remained all the more determined to ignore the growing tension, until eventually Aegon got up and
walked off, leaving Robb and Rhaenys alone.

He shot one last dark glare at his sister before he stormed out of the door. Robb watched him go
before he turned back to his lover. “What happened?” He asked as he sopped up the fat of his
bacon with a bit of bread.

Rhaenys sighed, and sadness settled over her. “Aegon…is unhappy.”

“About his lot in life?”

“Yes.”

Robb scratched behind his dire wolves ears. “He would have been the heir to the Iron Throne in
another life.”

“And he and I would have been dead in another.” Rhaenys replied hotly. “It does no good to talk of
roads not taken.”

Robb hummed in agreeance, before getting to his feet. “I want to leave before the early morning is
done. I mean to make it to Mount Starpoint before the day is done.”

Rhaenys nodded and also got to her feet, before rushing away to gather her belongings. Robb
himself sought out the owner of the Inn, and paid him handsomely for his food and board.

And thus, less than an hour later, Robb, Rhaenys and Aegon found themselves on the road once
more and well on the way to arriving at Mount Starpoint.

Today’s ride was much different in Robb’s opinion. Gone was the snow and laughter and
happiness and in it’s place was a brooding tension that threatened to burst out at any moment. Robb
rode ahead of both the Targaryen siblings, determined to not get involved in their family squabble.

Aegon’s thirst for more was well known within House Stark, but Aegon had been raised as a
bastard, never knowing the truth of his birth until a few years ago. The knowledge had seemed to
only alienate Aegon even further from those who had enjoyed his company. Rhaenys on the other
hand had only been driven further into the arms of those who comforted her, and Davos Seaworth
and her mother had been her closest confidants. Well them, and Robb. Robb had been her first,
though she was not his. He had been visiting the brothels of the winter city since he had turned
eleven. It was Theon Greyjoy who had first introduced him to a woman’s touch, and ever since
Robb hadn’t been able to get enough of it. Serving girls, whores, the daughters of the Lords of the
North, where Robb had gone a bloody trailed followed of broken maidenheads and broken hearts.

When Robb had found his way into Rhaenys’ bed over a year and a half ago, he had sworn off
other women and for the most part he had stayed true to Rhaenys. He knew what they had going
could not last though. Robb was the great bastard of House Stark. From a young age he had known
he was meant for more than disposed Targaryen Princess. He was to be one of his brother’s loyal
bannermen, with a keep and titles of his own. He would marry the daughter of a noble lord and
have noble children.

The more Robb grew though, the more he realised that was not what he wanted. Robb was too
much of a wild wolf to ever settle down. Robb only felt truly alive when a woman was impaled on
the end of his cock, or when a man was dead at his hands. In the life of a noble lord of the north
there would be no room for either of those activities, especially in an age of peace.

So consumed had Robb been in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the towering heights of Mount
Starpoint appearing in the distance, and was only stirred from his slumber when he found the gates
of the fortress shut to him.

“We are here.” Robb muttered and Aegon and Rhaenys reigned their mounts in behind him, while
Grey Wind sat down beside his horse.

“The gates are shut!” Robb called.

“The mummer’s farce isn’t done!” Came the reply.

“The White Wolf hasn’t risen.” Robb replied, though Ghost flashed through his mind.

Silence greeted Robb’s final declaration, before the rumbling of chains filled the air and the gates
began to creak open. Inside, Robb found the woman who had raised him waiting. Princess Elia
Martell, a woman who Robb considered to be his own mother. As Aegon and Rhaenys embraced
her tightly, Robb waited and when she was done with them she turned her warm gaze to him, and
he stepped forward for a hug of his own. She embraced him just as tightly as she had embraced
either of her trueborn children, and Robb hugged her back. Already he felt like a young boy again,
afraid and fearful and scared of every passing shadow. But here was the woman who had been his
protector, who had watched over him when he slept comforted him when he cried and listened as
he vented against the unfairness of the world he was born into.

“Come into my chambers,” The princess of Dorne declare, “We must share a drink and some food.
When did all of you last eat? You’re looking awfully skinny Aegon.”

Together the four of them made their way to where Elia Martell lived. Her chambers were the
warmest in the entire mountain, and set far into the mountain itself. Fire’s roared in every hearth
Robb passed and it was almost swelteringly hot inside. But it was how the woman who had been
raised in the sun kissed sands of Dorne lived, and for Robb these chambers were just as familiar
and homely as his own back in the Wolf Fort.

Robb sat himself down in an armchair as Elia served them tea and had food brought in for them.
The afternoon was spent catching up, and it was peaceful and joyful and just for a moment Robb
allowed himself to forget of White Wolves and Wars and Winter and he enjoyed the moment with
his mother, his lover and a boy he considered to be a brother. And it seemed that those he was with
also put aside their squabbles and worries and they laughed and enjoyed the afternoon. But all
good things must come to an end, Robb would later lament, and Elia Martell was the one who
ended it. “Rhaenys, Aegon,” She said, her voice sharp, “Leave me alone with your brother for a
moment.”

Rhaenys and Aegon stood up and left, and Robb watched as his step mother got to her feet and
pulled a wrapped package from a shelf on the war. Robb hadn’t noted it before, because it was
wrapped in a yellow pelt.

“Here.” Elia Martell said as she proffered the package to him. “Take it.”

Robb reached out and noted the second he grasped it that it was a sword. “A sword?” Robb asked,
“I thank you for the gift mother, but I have plenty of these.”

Elia smiled. “That you do. But this isn’t any sword. Draw it.”

Robb removed the pelt that covered the blade, and immediately noted the excessively decorated
hilt. Gold and rubies adorned it and the pommel was carved in the likeness of a familiar animal.
Robb’s breath caught in his throat as he pulled the blade free from its scabbard. “This is-“

“Yes.” Elia replied. “Your uncle gave it to me as a gift. He acquired it from the pirate in the
stepstones that has been terrorizing my brother.”

Robb almost immediately rewrapped it and handed it back to Elia. She refused to take it though
and shook her head. “In the morn you and Aegon go to war. Aegon to Moat Cailin, and you to the
South. You will have a greater need of it than anyone here in the North.”

Robb went to protest, but Elia stopped him with a harsh look. “That is not the only reason I have
given you that blade though. I am not built to wield blades and kill men but you are. When you go
South, I want you to swing that blade for me. I want you to kill those that would have harmed me.
And when you have it into that monster’s groin and his feral dog as well, I want you to tell him that
Elia Martell sends her regards.”

Robb swallowed. This was a side of his mother he had never seen before. Nodding, he took the
blade and hung it at his side. It was an unfamiliar weight, lighter than the blades that Robb was
 accustomed too.

And the next morning, Robb and Aegon rode forth to war and duty, Robb to meet his retinue at
Moat Cailin and continue south, and Aegon to serve under Gendry Durrandon. One thing was for
certain though, Robb would do as his mother had commanded, no matter what the cost may be. She
had saved him when he was a nobody, and he would avenge her when no one else would step forth.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry for the lack of updates, I am really struggling to write this while also balancing
the deadlines of my own original writing project.
 Jaime III: The Flight of the Falcon
Chapter Summary

Jaime sets out in search of Tyrion.

Chapter Notes

This chapter takes place over about a month, from beginning to end.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When Jamie had ridden forth from King’s Landing in all his righteous wrath and determination to
save his brother not even the Others of Northern legend could stand in his way. He had gathered
barely a hundred men, the first he had seen, ordered them to pack their bags and mount their horses
and they had ridden out straight away. He had no clue where he was going or what he was doing,
all he knew was that his little brother was in need. His small retinue rushed up the kingsroad, and
across the Ruby ford, and past the high road. They had seen hide nor hair of Tyrion. And it was
there that trouble first struck.

Jamie wheeled his horse around, as the men fell upon them. With a wordless cry, he yanked his
sword from his sheath and charged at the group of men attacking his. The fight was short, but
bloody, and yet still Jaime’s men prevailed.

Only once the fight had finished did Jaime inspect the corpses, and the discovery chilled him to his
bone. Stitched upon the tunic of the men who had attacked him was a falcon on a blue background.

“The men of the Vale.” One of his men said, “What are they doing here?”

“Isn’t it clear?” another said with a glare at Jaime. “We’ve rushed past the High Road and the men
of the Vale have come down since. When we were leaving the capital, all anyone was talking
about was the host that Ronnel Arryn was gathering at the Bloody Gate.”

Jaime stared at the corpse in front of him, while his mind whirred.

“What now?” Asked the original man.

“What now?” The cynic replied. “Now we die. What do you think is going to happen when Ronnel
Arryn’s outriders don’t return?”

Jaime whirled around. “Shut up!” He cried, “I’m trying to think!”

The man glared at him, but did as he bid.

After a moment’s silence, Jamie knew the only safe direction to go. “East and South are the men of
the Vale. North is the North, where only enemies lie. West is the Green Fork, but if we can cross it,
we should be able to sprint to the safety of our homelands.”
“There is no crossing along the Green Fork from here to the Twins though. And the Twins would
take us dangerously close to the domains of those who are our enemies.”

“My aunt married a Frey.” Jamie replied, “And for all that House Frey may be they still care about
family.”

Jamie got no response from any of his men, but for sullen silence. He glanced at them and found
that many of the where looking uncertain. It was clear that they thought that they were down and
out. Trapped behind enemy lines, with foes all around the situation was grim. It was grim, but it
was not impossible.

Jamie was a knight of the Kingsguard. He had fought with and besides the likes of The Sword of
the Morning and Barristan the Bold. “We will prevail. For all of Ronnel Arryn’s posturing he is
still a boy playing at war.”

“A boy he may be,” One man said, “but he is surrounded by notable and hardened warriors like
Bronze Yohn and Ser Lyn Corbray. Those are men that are not to be trifled with. ”

“No more of this arguing.” Another man named Jarryd snapped. “We are going to have a hard
enough time getting out of here alive united. It will be impossible if we are divided.”

Jarryd turned to Jaime. “What is your command, my lord?”

Jamie glanced at the map in his hands. “We’ll continue trekking North-West until we reach the
Twins. We move fast, sleep little and hunt as we ride and we should be able to stay ahead of those
who would harm us. We keep our eyes out for Tyrion. Whoever finds him first will be awarded
five hundred golden dragons. For now, pack up and ride out.”

His men nodded and began packing away their gear and preparing to ride out. Jamie turned and
looked once more at the bodies that littered the road. War was a grievous thing. Jamie knew very
few of his men would live to see their homes again. Their anger was justified. This was a fool’s
errand he had led them on. He saw that now.

So consumed he had been with saving Tyrion that he had noted that falcon falling upon him until it
was directly over him. Now not only was Tyrion in danger but so too was Jaime.

Less than an hour later Jamie and his men were on the road again. Their number was diminished,
but hopefully it would be enough to get them home. They had lost fourteen men at the skirmish
near the High Road.

They made good time up the kingsroad, but all along Jaime’s outriders reported that Ronnel
Arryn’s men were nipping at their heels. The Riverlords themselves were nowhere to be seen.
Jaime supposed they were gathering at their keeps, preparing for the war that would rip their
homelands apart. Such was the way of war. Which way the riverlords allegiance would fall was
still up in the air. If Jaime was to field a guess he would have said that those lords would have
fallen which way the winds of war blew.

“We have to stop.” One his men said on the third day of their flight, when all of them were tired
and sore and their horses driven half to ruin. “There is no way we can outrun them. We don’t have
the supplies to last and nor do we have the men to fight through them.”

“We don’t stop.” Jaime replied. “We don’t stop until we are safe or dead.”

“Please, Ser Jaime.” The man begged. “I have a wife and children back home that I want to see
again. Surrender now and let us be treated according to our station. We can’t go on.”
Jaime stopped and stared at his men once more. Three days previous they had looked haggard.
Today they looked like walking corpses. Deprived of food, sleep and warmth men swayed in their
saddles.

“Go then.” Jamie replied. “Surrender to Ronnel Arryn and pray that he does not kill you. For me
though, he will have no mercy. I captured his father and killed his father’s men, men whom he has
no doubt known since the day he was born. Go and perhaps you may live and see your families
again.”

When he was done with his speech, more than half of his surviving men rode away. Remaining to
him where eleven men he counted. Eleven men. He only hoped they would be enough.

The next morning they had another encounter with Ronnel Arryn’s outriders. They were not
enough.

Jaime had been forced to flee with the three surviving guards he had left. He had even bothered to
learn their names now. The silent one was called Alec. He spoke little, but Jaime knew few who
rode a horse better. The tall one that liked to laugh was called Unwin, though he laughed little these
days due to an Arryn knife tearing his cheek in half. The final one that had stayed with Jaime was
the cynic who had so heavily berated him from the start of this god forsaken journey. His name
was Rogar and to be frank Jaime was sometimes scared by him. He was a devil with a sword in
hand, and he fought like a man possessed. Death horrified him it seemed and he fought against its
grasp every time it came for them in the form of outriders.

Rogar was planning their escape even now as news had arrived that the riverlords to the direct west
had declared for Ronnel Arryn, joining his forces to theirs. “We can still flee North.” He was
saying as he and Alec leant over the map they had. “The Starks are yet to declare and we can still
have a hope of crossing at the Twins. Even if the Twins rebuff us we can continue up the kingsroad
and cross further up, where the waters don’t move as fast. I’m sure there is some riverman with a
barge who can be convinced to help us in exchange for some gold. Perhaps we may even bump
into the Lord Tyrion.”

“No.” Jaime said as he joined them. “I won’t have good men die for a dead cause. Go, all of you. If
you can, slip back south past Ronnel Arryn and go back to King’s Landing. Tell Cersei I sent you
and she will reward you highly for your service to me.”

Rogar snorted in disbelief. “More like she will order our heads cut off for abandoning her brother.”

Jaime ignored him. “If you don’t want to go south, go north. For all that I loathe them, the
northerners are honourable people and there is always work for good swords in the north.”

Unwin grunted in agreeance before reaching out to grasp Jaime’s hand. “Best of luck to you Ser
Jaime. Hopefully I’ll see you again someday.”

Jaime nodded and clasped Unwin’s hand. “When this all over, find me and I’ll see you rewarded.”

Unwin nodded and stepped back while Alec stepped forth. He just nodded once, before turning to
follow Unwin.

“Are you coming Rogar?” Unwin asked as they mounted their horses. Rogar stared at Jaime for a
time, before turning to Unwin and shaking his head. “I’ll take my chances with Ser Jaime.”

Unwin nodded before turning and spurring his horse away. Alec followed, leaving Jaime and
Rogar alone. “Why did you stay?” Jaime asked, “There’s no chance that I will survive what is to
come.”

“And there is also every chance you will.” Rogar replied as he Unwin and Alec passed over the hill
behind them. Rogar walked behind him to get his belongings when Jaime felt something heavy
crash into his skull. “And that is something I just could not bear.” Jaime heard Rogar say as he
sunk into the embrace of the darkness.

When Jaime came to he found himself in chains.

He was in a cage while around him the sounds of feasting and cheering where underway. He turned
his head and found himself staring at a handsome young man that looked to be about six and ten
years old. He had wavy blonde hair, striking blue eyes and a aquiline nose. His jaw was as sharp as
the sword that rested at his side.

“Lord Ronnel.” Jaime said with a grin as he tried to get to his feet. Something wasn’t right though
and his legs refused to respond. He ending up face planting in the mud and dirt.

A pair of strong hands hauled him to his feet and bound him with ropes to a post. Jaime opened his
eyes and found Lord Yohn Royce standing before him, each inch of his form wrapped in his
brilliant bronze armour that blazed with the light of a hundred runes. He drew his sword from his
side and levelled it at Jaime’s chest. “Shall I kill him, My Lord?”

The question hung in the air and to Jaime’s horror he realised Ronnel was considering it. This was
no way for Jaime’s life to end, hung on the sword of some overzealous lord. If he was to die, he
would die with a sword in his hand. “I would make a valuable hostage, boy.” Jaime said as he
stared at the young lordling. “You could trade me for your father.”

Ronnel Arryn turned his eyes away from Jaime and began to cry. Tears dripped down his cheeks
and rage quivered in every bone of his body.

What has Cersei done?

Ronnel Arryn turned back to Jaime, his tears still staining his cheeks. “Trade you for my father?”
He asked. “I already have my father.” He replied as he nodded at Lord Yohn Royce. Lord Yohn
turned around and picked up a chest that Jaime had not yet seen. He opened it and inside rested a
tarred and rotting skull along with two hands. “Your son sent my father’s head back to me in my
mother’s hands. You’re as valuable to me as your son and your sister made my father and my
mother valuable to them. I will give you death.”

Jaime’s heart dropped in his chest. What had Cersei done? Was she a fool? The time had come to
extend the hand of peace and instead Cersei had extended the hand of war. How many more men
like Unwin and Alec had she doomed to die because she could not keep her son in hand?

He’s your son too.

Jaime squashed that voice in his head as quickly as it had come.

“Cersei and Joffrey still have your sister, my lord.” A familiar voice said and Jaime turned to see
Ser Lyn Corbray standing there, with a drawn Lady Forlorn clutched in his hands. “To kill him
now would be to see your sister killed as well. Perhaps you should keep him hostage for now, until
you have your sister back. And if Joffrey or Cersei do anything to your sister you can still kill
him.”

Ronnel nodded at Ser Lyn Corbray. “Take him to the dungeons then. Let it be known though, at
 the first sign of harm to my sister, or at the first trouble that Ser Jaime shall cause that he will lose
his head, and I will send it back to Cersei clutched in the hands of every Lannister I kill in this
war.”

Chapter End Notes

So the timeline goes something like this. They rode north for a week, before they
came across Ronnel and then Ronnel pursued them for two weeks before Jaime got
captured.

Please, leave me a comment and let me know what you think. I would really love to
hear your opinion as it keeps me inspired and helps me to write the next chapter.
 Davos I: The Pirate King
Chapter Summary

Davos arrives on Dragonstone and tries to help Stannis.

Chapter Notes

Okay, here is most probably my favorite character that I have made for this story. He's
sort of a Euron Greyjoy of the North, and he is central to more than one Canon
Character's story arc. I hope you like him as much as I have enjoyed writing him
because I have spent months planning this character out. Please, I'm begging you, tell
me what you think of him and what you think of the chapter as a whole. I have put so
much work into this and I want to know if this character is worth the work I did for
him. So without further ado, here he is, Torrhen Snow, the Bastard of the Salt's Maw.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Davos hadn’t seen Dragonstone in years. The last time he had been here he had still been a
smuggler and Aerys Targaryen had yet to lose his throne and his life. He found that little had
changed about the place since Stannis Baratheon took up residence in the grim fortress.

It was still a sprawling, ugly mess of fused black stone and more gargoyles than Davos dared to
count. Sulfur and smoke still lingered in the air and a pervading sense of something unnatural hung
about the place.

He had sailed down with his little fleet of five ships and two of his sons, Dale and Maric. Dale was
a captain of his own ship, while Maric served Davos as his first mate on the Black Betha. Davos’
other two elder sons, Allard and Matthos, sailed with the Pirate King of the Stepstones, Torrhen
Snow. Both of them had travelled the world with their king, and Allard had been with him when he
had fled the north in his blaze of glory. Allard had been by his side throughout all of his adventures
and Davos knew that Torrhen Snow considered Allard to be one of his closest and most trusted
companions. So trusted that he had named him captain of his second most powerful ship, The
White Leviathan.

Torrhen’s own ship, The Black Leviathan, was the greatest ship that Davos had ever laid eyes on.
It was bigger than even the Ibbenense whaler that Davos had once seen from afar. It had five masts
of Ironwood and sails four times the size of Davos’ own ship. Davos had overseen part of the
ship’s construction himself, and he knew that no ship that sailed the seas could hope to defeat such
a beast in battle. Matthos had joined Torrhen later, stealing away in the night and joining his
brother in Braavos. The last Davos heard of Matthos he had been appointed the second mate on
The Grey Leviathan, the third most powerful ship in Torrhen Snow’s fleet.

“We have ships approaching.” Maric said as he joined him at the tiller of the Black Betha. Davos
had seen them already, sailing to cut off their approach to the docks of Dragonstone. “Hoist the
flags.” Davos replied, “And send word to our ships to fly the onion banner.”
Maric nodded and rushed away to do his bidding, while Davos carefully watched the ships
approaching. They flew a strange banner, one that Davos had not seen before. It bore the Baratheon
stag enclosed within a burning heart of red flame. By his own admission, Davos knew little of
lords and their games, but Davos knew that to spurn his family’s banner would only weaken
Stannis’ claim.

On the masts of his own ships, his own banners, along with the banner of the Starks were raised.
The Baratheon ships responded by blowing a long horn blast and turning away. Davos saw a dock
being cleared for his landing, and called for Maric. “Send signal to the other ships to wait behind
until I have spoken with Stannis. They will land once I am assured of our safety.”

Maric nodded and then the final hustle begun to prepare the ship for landfall. Sailors rushed about,
hauling in sails, strapping down loose crates and manning the oars. Davos guided the tiller gently
and slipped through the lines of the royal navy that had declared for Stannis.

His ship docked at the empty spot with the gentlest of scrapes against the pier and then his men
were casting down ropes and the dockhands tied her secure. He patted the ships tiller fondly. She
wasn’t as familiar to him as his own smuggling ship, but for this voyage he had been forced to
leave that ship at home.

A solid clunk of an oaken ramp being lowered brought Davos back to where he was now. He
looked up and found Maric waiting for him at the ramp. “Wait here.” He told him. “At the first
sign of trouble, cast off and flee back North to home. If you can’t make it there, then flee for the
Stepstones.”

Maric nodded and Davos glanced about one final time before descending to the island where a
would be king lay in wait. On the docks he found Ser Andrew Estermont waiting for him, along
with a retinue of twenty men.

“Ser Andrew.” Davos greeted with a small nod of his head. He had first met Ser Andrew during
the siege of Storm’s End, when Stannis had the boy as his squire. Ser Adnrew was much older
now, but still Stannis relied on him and Davos knew that Stannis did not surround himself with
fools.

“Onion Lord.” Ser Andrew replied, though Davos noted with relief that the name was not said as
insult like so many others used it as. “King Stannis wishes to see you in his quarters. I am to escort
you there.”

Davos nodded and followed Ser Andrew as they departed the dock. “So Stannis has declared for
the throne then?” Davos asked as he strode beside Ser Andrew.

“His grace will speak to you in his chambers.”

Davos realised the conversation was going to get him nowhere and instead spent the rest of the
walk determining Stannis’ strength. In the docks rested at least 100 ships, and Davos saw the sails
of many more upon the horizon. Men marched to and fro, and yet for all their numbers Davos still
felt that there was too few, especially for a man that wanted to be king.

Ser Andrew led him through the gates of Dragonstone and into the castle proper. Around him, men
were preparing for war. Nearby he could see men getting fitted for arms and armour, while
somewhere behind him he could hear the clang of a smith hard at work.

Something felt off about Dragonstone on this day though, a fear and fanatical miasma that hung
about every man’s eyes. When Davos was finally brought before the doors to the chamber of the
Painted Table, he could feel the tension rolling off the men around him. Something very strange
was going on to be sure.

Ser Andrew opened the door and Davos stepped inside. Around the room, brazier’s burned
fiercely, filling the room with a stifling heat. Stannis himself had changed very little from when
Davos had seen him last. He had put on a lot of weight, and lost a lot of hair, but his eyes were still
the same and so to was the way he carried himself. He was still the man of iron that would break
before he would bend.

With him was a man he did not recognise and a woman he assumed to be Stannis’ wife. Stannis
looked up from the table before him when Davos walked in, but his expression did not change.

Davos inclined his head to Stannis. “My Lord.” Davos said as he reached into his pocked at
withdrew the shining white knucklebone and Lord Stark’s letter. “You have called and I have
come.”

“You are talking to a king.” The unknown man snapped, “Address him as such.”

“Quiet Ser Axell.” Stannis ground out. “I have need of this man’s council and until now as far as I
know he was unaware I was a king.”

“Are you?” Davos asked. “Have you claimed the throne?”

“Claimed?” Stannis spat. “Why should I need to claim what is rightfully mine? Duty demands that
it be given to me, that the lords of these kingdoms bend the knee.”

“Rightfully yours?” Davos asked. “Did not your brother have sons? Does their claim not come
before yours?”

“Their claim would come before mine had he any trueborn ones.” Stannis snarled the words out in
half a growl before thrusting a piece of paper at him. “Read.” He commanded.

Davos snatched the paper from Stannis’ grasp and quickly scanned it. It was the same letter that
Eddard Stark had shown him before he had left Winterfell bound for here. It seemed that more
than one man believed Joffrey and Tommen to be the bastard spawn of an incestuous relationship.

Davos grunted in reply and then handed the letter back. “If the throne is rightfully yours, why have
you not claimed it yet then?”

Stannis ground his teeth and stared out the window.

“The Prince who is promised shall sweep aside all the pretenders to his throne. The Lord of Light
shall see his champion come into his kingdom.” An exotic voice interrupted them both.

Davos turned to see an exotic woman sitting in the shadows. Young and beautiful, she was garbed
in flowing red robes while a red ruby glistened at her collar.

“Who are you?” Davos asked, bewildered at her presence.

“Melisandre of Asshai.” The red woman replied, “Servant of R’hollr.”

“R’hollr? The Red God?” Davos asked as he turned to Stannis. “What is she doing here?”

“She has power.” Stannis responded.

“Power?” Davos asked. “What sort of power? How many swords does she bring? How many ships
does she have? Because with all due respect your grace that is the power that will see you seated on
the Iron Throne, not eastern mysticism.”

“Show respect to the Lord of Light’s chosen!” Stannis’ wife screeched. “He is The Prince that is
Promised, bone amongst salt and smoke! He shall deliver us from the Long Night!”

“Prince that is Promised?!” Davos exclaimed, “Born amongst salt and smoke? The Long Night?
Are you hearing yourselves right now?”

“Enough.” Stannis’ voice was like a whip, cutting through the air. “Leave me, all of you. I wish to
speak to Lord Davos alone.”

His wife and her brother got up and left, glaring at Davos as they did so. The Red Woman smiled at
him warmly and the ruby at her throat glittered darkly. Davos shivered coldly as she left.

“The Long Night, your grace?” Davos asked. “I come from the North, and even there, The Long
Night is spoken of as no more than a myth to most people and an ancient and dead god to others.”

Stannis shot him a dark look, before nodding at the chair that Ser Axell had just vacated. “Sit.” he
commanded.

Davos took a seat and looked at the table before him. Spread across it where markers representing
the strength of each kingdom. Lions and Falcons were scattered throughout the Riverlands, while
roses and stags had gathered in the reach. In the far north, the wolves littered everywhere from
Moat Cailin to the Lands Beyond the Wall while on Dragonstone stood a solitary burning heart.

“Look.” Stannis said as he swept his hand over the painted table. “There are enemies and claimants
to my kingdom everywhere I turn. Bastards, brothers and pretenders tear my kingdoms apart. And
here I sit because the lords that are meant to swear fealty to me as their rightful king have betrayed
me. Even your own liege lord spurns me. I send him a raven demanding him to swear fealty and he
sends me five ships and an onion lord.”

“You demanded he give fealty to you?” Davos asked.

“As he did for Robert.”

“Do you think Robert ever demanded Ned Stark’s fealty and loyalty?”

Stannis stewed in silence, while his eyes roiled with an emotion that Davos could not identify.
“Ned was always the brother Robert wanted. I wasn’t worthy of Robert’s love, and now it seems I
am not worthy of his servants either.”

Stannis’ voice was small, smaller than Davos had ever heard it before. It shook slightly at the word
brother and trembled at love.

Davos leant forward in his seat. “Earn the trust of your dead brother’s servants. Earn their
admiration and respect. Earn their armies and gold. You do not need this red priest. You can win
their armies to your side. Prove the true claim is yours. You and I both know the boy king that sits
the Iron Throne. When he mucks up, and he will, be there to fill the void he leaves behind. Show
the kingdoms that you are worthy of the throne you pursue a rightfully yours!”

Stannis rose from his seat and turned to look out over Blackwater bay. “You rebuke me for
surrounding myself with eastern mysticism and yet at least that is a power that is here now,
supporting me. So tell me Lord Davos, if you would not have me use eastern mysticism then what
should I use to gain my throne.”
“Swords and ships.” Davos replied. “Steel and blood.”

Stannis snorted. “Swords and ships I have plenty of, but I have no men to wield them and few men
to sail them. Where am I to get these men from Lord Davos? My own kingdoms have spurned me
of what is rightfully mine.”

Davos paused for a second, considering. Stannis was right. All of Westeros had spurned his claim
and because of that he had no strength to stake his claim. Davos’ eyes fell upon a corner of that
painted table, the end of the arm of Dorne.

“I’ll admit I don’t know much of what Lord Stark plans.” Davos admitted, “But I can assure you
that if you keep that red woman by your side, he will never support your claim.”

Stannis ground his teeth in annoyance.

“But if you insist on keeping her by your side and you need ships?” Davos said. “I can get you six
hundred. You need men?” He asked, “I can find you twenty five thousand.”

“And where does such an army exist?” Stannis spat. “You just said that Lord Stark will not support
me with the red woman by my side.”

“He won’t.” Davos affirmed. But that doesn’t mean others won’t. Davos reached over for a paper
map and rolled it open. “Here sits a king.” Davos said as he pointed out a place on the map. “A
king like you that is struggling to have people recognise him as one.”

“A pirate king.” Stannis sneered as he stared at the stepstones.

“But a king nonetheless.” Davos replied. “A king with six hundred ships and twenty five thousand
men.”

“Twenty five thousand pirates.” Stannis argued.

“My own sons amongst them.” Davos replied. “This king has a thirst for gold and recognition.
Give him both and he will see you seated upon the Iron Throne.”

Stannis was silent for the longest time. Davos waited patiently. “This is why I wanted you in my
service all those years ago Lord Davos.” Stannis eventually said. “You make me wish I had more
smugglers in my service and less lords and knights. Your advice is sound. Send word to the Pirate
King. It will do no harm to my cause to see how much he wants for his armies.”

Davos nodded and turned from the king, seeking out his own sons at the docks.

He found Dale first. “Go find Torrhen and your brothers.” Davos told him. “Bring them here and
tell them that King Stannis wishes to buy his services. Sail now, sail fast. The reign of the true king
depends upon you.”

Next to him Stannis was as still as a rock as they watched the three ships approach over the
horizon. His hands were clenched behind his back, while his eyes were set in stone and his jaw
locked. Behind him his court had gathered, though not all of them looked happy with who Stannis
had stood at his right hand. Stannis had spurned his Castellan and his wife, as well as the lords who
had attended him. Instead it was Davos who stood at his right hand, in a position he still did not
think he should have been.

The approaching ships were flying over the waves, going faster than Davos had thought ships were
possible of going. The ships were so large and fast that they created their own waves in the wake, a
foaming line of water that stretched for leagues behind them. As the ships got closer, Davos finally
saw in the flesh the ship that he had seen on paper all those years ago.

The Black Leviathan was just as grand as he had supposed she would be. Five hundred feet long,
with five masts and a prow and ram of black steel. Two chains extended from holes high in the
prow of the ship, taut as a bowstring and attached to something underneath the water. On the
foredeck Davos could see two heavy Ballista, mounted on both port and starboard sides while
along the sides of the ships hundreds of broken shields and tattered banners hung.

The shields and banners were a sign of Torrhen’s conquests and Davos knew that some of those
banners and shields had come from as far away as the lands beyond the Sunset Sea as well as the
Jade Sea. By his Beron Saltstark’s own confession, Torrhen Snow would have been perhaps the
most capable admiral of his age, if not all time.

And two of Davos’ own sons sailed with him, one of them his most trusted right hand, a captain of
Torrhen’s second most powerful ship. It made Davos both swell with pride, and quail with shame.
Did his sons serve a great admiral, a king? Or did they serve a pirate?

No doubt they thought they served a king but Allard had always been the most impulsive of all his
sons and Maric wasn’t far behind. He doubted their judgment was entirely sound.

A horn blast shattered the air around them, and Davos could make out the giant instrument that
made such a sound. Once upon a time it must have been the horn of a fearsome beast, but now it
was hollowed out and wrapped in bands of silver and black steel. At least seven feet long, Davos
could see it attached to the prow of Torrhen’s ship, being blown by some soul with large lungs,
most probably one of the sons of Lord Alaric Whitestark. All eight of his bastard sons and three of
his trueborn ones had been part of Torrhen’s original forty sons that fled the north with him.

The sound petered out and as one the ships slowed and then stopped. It was almost uncanny how in
sync the ships were. The taut chains at the front of the ship slackened once the ships stopped and
fell into the water, trailing along the hull.

Once the ships had fully stopped, sailors seemed to spring from everywhere, clambering down the
rigging, emerging from below decks and Davos even saw one pop out of an empty barrel.

They swarmed about, lowering boats and nets and readying themselves for war it seemed.

In total it was three rowboats from each ship that set out. Nine ships in total, each holding ten men.
Behind Stannis, Ser Axell Florentine scrambled to increase the amount of guards they had around.

He had made his displeasure with this course of action known from the very beginning. He would
have preferred to attack King’s Landing at once, before a sizeable defence could be mustered from
the lords of the crownlands.

This was the course Stannis had chosen though, and it was the one his subjects would follow. The
ships grew closer and closer and Davos could make out the faces of the men on board. They were
all northern from what Davos could tell.

He could see the six Whitestark bastards and all three of Lord Whitestark’s trueborn sons, as well
as Rickon Riverstark, Hoarfrost Umber, Roose Ryswell and Argos Seastark. And then of course
there was also both of his own sons and finally the greatest and most infamous of them all, Torrhen
Snow, the bastard of the Saltsmaw and Pirate King of the Stepstones.
He had grown much since Davos had last seen him. All the childhood he once had on him had
faded away and left his cheekbones sharp, the planes of his face hard and masculine. A smattering
of pox scars graced his left cheek, while an unruly mop of dark brown hair ran amok on top of his
head. He wasn’t a classically handsome man, but it wasn’t his looks that drew people to him. His
eyes burned fiercely with purpose and anger, while his mouth was twisted into a wry smirk.
Resting in between his lips was one of the smoking pipes favoured by the sailors of Ibben, and
every few seconds he blew a long puff of dark green smoke that ran out of his mouth like water,
pooling at the bottom of the rowboat in which he sat.

He was dressed in black leathers, covered by a thick black cloak, as were all his men. Torrhen was
separated however by a silver sash pinned to his chest, while the shoulders of his cloak were
marked with his personal sigil, a black leviathan with silver highlights.

The small tow boats scraped along the sides of the low dock and the Pirate King’s court leapt to
assemble themselves. Some of the men formed an honour guard for their king, while others rushed
about unloading the many chests that sat in the boats.

Torrhen Snow stepped off the little rowboat and onto dry land and his men snapped to attention
with straight backs and drawn cutlasses. What men remained carefully stacked the chests in a neat
pile before the feat of their king.

Torrhen took one final puff of his pipe, before flinging the expensive mahogany pipe into the
waters behind him. He watched as it sunk beneath the waves, before blowing out the smoke of his
last puff. He watched it pool at his feet and then sink beneath the floorboards of the dock before
turning around. Only then did he turn his gaze to the king awaiting him.

He strode down the docks slowly, gazing at every member of Stannis’ court that was gathered on
the dock. Eventually he stopped before Stannis’ wife, before bowing low and seizing her hand. “I
have travelled far and wide, through the north of the Shivering Sea as far south as the tip of
Sothoryos and I have even explored the coastline of Ulthos.” Torrhen said, his voice as soft as a
whisper. “And in all my years of travel and sightseeing never have I seen a woman with a
moustache like yours.”

Selyse Baratheon flinched as if she had just been struck, before she yanked her hand back. Her
brother surged forward and went to seize Torrhen by the lapels of his cloak, but was stopped by
two of the guards that followed in his wake.

“You dare!” Ser Axell screamed, “Pirate scum! Repeat those words when my blade is drawn!”

Torrhen smirked at the man before turning back to the king.

“Stannis.” He said, his voice dulcet and calming. “Lord of Dragonstone, Scion of House Baratheon
and would be King of Westeros.”

Stannis did not physically respond, only stared at him coldly.

“So many pretenders. So many claimants. So many enemies. So few friends.”

“The same could be said of you.” Stannis replied.

Torrhen smiled. “It could.” He laughed, “But I have many swords and ships to defend and keep my
kingdom and you have few of either.”

“I have legitimacy though.” Stannis replied, “My claim is the true claim. And though swords and
ships may not be mine in abundance now who is to say what tomorrow will bring?”
“Perhaps it will bring a new king?” Torrhen replied, “Perhaps two kings?”

“One King.” Stannis replied tersely. “Westeros has One King. Me.”

“And so too does the Stepstones. One King. Me.” Torrhen replied. “Where once it was the denizen
of a hundred captains and a hundred kings and a hundred smugglers, now they all answer to me. I
am an undisputed king of a small smattering of islands in the middle of the Narrow Sea. But do you
know what it is that burns me more than my small domain?”

Stannis watched Torrhen warily, before shooting a glance at Davos.

“It is the fact that only my own men call me king.” Torrhen continued, “Only those who live under
my rule recognise me as a king. From Volantis to Sunspear they spurn my crown, mocking me as
the Pirate King. Much in the same way that your kingdoms have spurned your claim.”

“You want recognition.” Stannis stated, a light of understanding dawning in his eyes.

“I want more than just that.” Torrhen snarled as he clenched his right fist. “I want Lys. I want Myr.
I want Tyrosh. I want to see them knelt before me, proclaiming me as their king and paying me
tribute. I want to see Volantis tremble before my might and for Pentos to quail before me. I want to
see Braavos recognise me as a King and for all of Westeros to know my name. I want my enemies
to fear me and my friends to love me. I want for men to sing of my name for a thousand years and I
want to be remembered for ten thousand. I was born a bastard, King Stannis, but I have no
intention of being remembered as one.”

Stannis nodded slowly, before chewing on his bottom lip. “It seems that we can help each other
then. With the backing of the King of Westeros behind you, who would dare to deny you your
crown?”

“Many men.” Torrhen replied. “Has not the Free Cities defied the Kings of Westeros before?”

“Let them.” Stannis replied. “Theirs is the defiance of a summer. Help me gain my kingdom, and I
will see you delivered into yours.”

Torrhen didn’t reply, just observed the true king. “Your kingdom first though?” He asked, “Why
not mine?”

“What do you want then?” Stannis snapped, “What would it take for you to agree to take mine
first?”

“Gold.” Torrhen replied with a dark smile. “Lots and Lots of gold. If I am to commit to your cause
before mine, my own fledgling kingdom would suffer. I would have to pull ships and men away
from the colonies I protect in sothroyos, colonies that bring me much money. Gold, recognition
and your own men once your war is done will by the price of my ships and men.” Torrhen plucked
a dagger of Valyrian Steel from his belt, before running it across his calloused palm. “So then,
King Stannis,” He asked as blood dripped down his hand and onto the ground beneath his feet. “Do
we have an agreement?”

Stannis stared at the extended hand for the longest time, before flicking his gaze to Davos. Davos
nodded encouragingly.

“Don’t do it, your grace!” Ser Axell cried. “Align yourself with a pirate king and all of Westeros
will spurn your claim twice over!”

“And who would you have him align with, Ser Axell?” Torrhen spat, his face dark with wroth. “A
 whore of the Red God?”

Said whore only smiled at Torrhen and stepped forth as her ruby choker glowed with the light of
burning brazier. “The Lord of Light shall not be mocked.” She lectured, “His power is above all.”

“Power!” Torrhen exclaimed, before he burst out laughing. “Power?!?! You think your god has
power?”

Around him some of Torrhen’s smiled in amusement while others shifted uncomfortably. Davos
noted Allard’s look drifted to some place far away.

“I’ve seen power!” Torrhen cried as tears ran down his cheeks. Davos could not tell if they were
tears of laughter or terror, or maybe both. “True power, power that drives the breath from your
body and renders your god as pathetic as a strand of hay to a sword of Valyrian Steel! I’ve seen
power that could tear this world apart and then put it back together in the blink of an eye, power
that leaves you short of breath and unsure of your own existence. I’ve seen sights that would drive
most men insane and I’ve gazed upon monsters greater than even the dragons of Valyria. I’ve
sailed the named seas, unnamed seas and seas that no man has ever gazed on before. I’ve come
across ten thousand gods in my travels, Horse gods and fire gods, gods made of gold with gemstone
eyes, gods carved of cedar wood, gods chiselled into mountains, gods of empty air... I know them
all. I have seen their peoples garland them with flowers, and shed the blood of goats and bulls and
children in their names. And I have heard the prayers, and heard the gods silence too. Gods are no
more than just splinters of magic that once existed in this world, and your god,” Torrhen paused as
he snorted and shook his head in amusement, “your god is the weakest splinter of them all.”

Torrhen advanced on the priest of the Red God. “So please,” He begged her, “Pray for your god to
strike me down. You better pray too though that he doesn’t fail, because if he does…you’ll find out
just why the sight of The Black Leviathan is so feared throughout everywhere I’ve ever been.
You’ll find out why those who wish me harm live in fear and those who care for me live in
comfort. You’ll find an enemy unlike any other you’ve faced before. You’ll find an enemy that
see’s right through everything…crone.”

To Davos’ surprise the young woman quailed at the last word of Torrhen Snow, before she
dropped her gaze and fled. Torrhen glared down Ser Axell before turning back to the king. “So
then, King Stannis?” He asked again, the cut on his hand still dripping blood, “Do we have an
agreement?”

Stannis stepped forth and yanked his leather gloves off, before thrusting them through his belt. He
snatched his own dagger from his belt, and while it was not Valyrian Steel it was still incredibly
sharp. A quick cut and his own blood was flowing from his hand. “Aye then.” Stannis growled, his
voice grave and of iron, “We shall have an agreement…King Torrhen.”

And with that he gripped Torrhen Snow’s bleeding hand and shook it once. Their blood mingled
and Torrhen Snow, King of the Stepstones and claimant of Myr, Tyrosh and Lys nodded
satisfactorily. “An agreement bound in blood.” He stated. “Break it at your own peril King Stannis.
As I warned the Red Whore, I know power.”

Davos had never been frightened by Torrhen before, he had known him since he was four. But a
shiver of terror ran through him regardless and he wondered just what it was that Torrhen had seen.
It had struck wonder and terror deep into his soul for all to see, and it horrified Davos that his son
had seen it too.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter End Notes

As I said at the start, please let me know what you think!

 Jon VI: Craster and his Keep
Chapter Summary

Jon arrives at Craster's Keep.

Chapter Notes

I am so sorry for how delayed this is, but my internet has been down! It's still not
working properly, but I've manged to get a tenuous connection for now, so hopefully
I'll be able to keep updating! Next update on Friday as per normal, if I have internet.

Jon had thought he had known what the cold was. How wrong he had been. Right now, the worst
of Winterfell’s snowstorms seemed like a warm summer breeze compared to the biting wind that
was cutting through him right now. He huddled deeper into his furs, but it did little to help. In the
distance he could see a small light shining through the darkness. Uncle Benjen he told him that the
light was the cook fires of Craster’s Keep. If those lights were ten miles away or ten meters
though, no one seemed to know. The Wargs bonded refused to go and look, preferring to stay close
to their masters. Ghost seemed to be the exception to that rule, having been missing for the last
three miles.

One of the ranger’s of the Night’s Watch sniffed the air. “Smoke.” He growled, “We must be close
by now.”

“I’ve been smelling smoke for the last five miles, Dayle.” Another grizzled ranger said, “It doesn’t
mean we are almost there. It just means the wind is picking up.”

He was right, Jon mused, as another gust blew through their large party. The wind was picking up.

“Better not to be at Craster’s.” Another ranger put in. “I’d rather be freezing my arse off in these
woods than warm in his halls.” A shiver ran through the ranger. “Even wildlings fear him...”

“Wildlings fear all they don’t understand.” Jeor Mormont rumbled, “And wildlings have never
been known for their understanding.”

At this the rangers laughed. “That’s true!” Dayle cried, “They say Tormund Giantsbane slept with
a bear! How thick must your skull be to fuck a bear!”

The men laughed harder until a horsemen came bearing down on them from the north. Half the
rangers had drawn their swords from their scabbards before they realised it was one of their own
party. Qhorin Halfhand had left the company in the presence of his lord, and Jon’s uncle, Benjen
Hardstark. Now he returned alone.

Jon spurred his horse forward to meet the man. “Qhorin!” He cried, “Where is my uncle?”

Qhorin shook his cowl from his head, and wet his lips with a wine skin. “Back with Craster.” He
rasped, “The man demanded he stay, while I brought the rest of our party to meet with him.”

“You left my uncle alone with that man?!”

“Of course I did.” Qhorin replied, “The Hardstark has been fighting and killing Wildlings since he
was fourteen years old. Even if Craster was inclined to try something, he will prove no match for
your uncle.”

“There is nothing to fear with Craster.” Jeor Mormont informed Jon as he reigned his horse in next
to him. “He has always been a friend to the watch. When rangers are in need of food or shelter,
Craster has always given it freely.”

Jon grunted in reply, unwilling to concede defeat. “How far away is Craster?”

“Less than a mile.” Qhorin replied. “Just up the next curve of this stream. We’ll be there within the
next hour.”

Jon nodded and turned to Garth Mormont. “Spread the word that we ride hard until we reach
Craster’s. I wish to be resting beneath a real roof before the time that the sun has set below the tree
line.”

Garth nodded and spurred his mount away. Around him the word spread that Craster’s Keep
wasn’t far, and Jon noticed the men’s attitude picking up. The promise of a night’s rest and the
possibility of resting in a real hall had inspired the men to keep pushing.

The men of the Night’s Watch had taken the position as vanguard of their party. They knew these
lands better than anyone, though Jon had sent his uncle and his most trusted men ahead as his
scouts. They were the true survivors of these lands, the ones who would make it back even if
Mance brought his armies in between them.

Jon’s Winter Wolves, led by The Greatjon, took the positon as the centre of his party. Jon’s Winter
Wolves were the largest part of his forces, and also the least experienced in these lands. Jon wanted
to make sure they were the best protected from the threats around them.

They were followed by The Weirwood Warriors and their Lord Commander Roderick Walton,
who had taken the position as the rear guard. Jon had made his commands to Roderick Walton
clear. He was to ensure that in the event of an attack from the rear, the Weirwood Warriors and
men of the Night’s Watch could make an organised retreat east to Hardhome.

Jon did not fear many things in these lands, but one thing he did fear was having Tormund
Giansbane, or worse, Mance Rayder, sweeping behind him and cutting him off from his route
south. Then they would be forced to march to Hardhome, but that march would be almost as
treacherous as bringing battle to a host of wildlings said to be as many as two hundred thousand
strong.

Jon did not fear to face wildlings, but he was well aware of how many men had died at the hands
of wildlings. It was because of men like Tormund Giantsbane and Mance Rayder and the Thenn’s
that wildlings were still feared. The Thenn’s had been the ones to drive the Lord of Fort Firstfist
from his halls as well as being the ones to steal his horses.

Never before had wildlings rode, but now they did thanks to the fall of Fort Firstfirst. A Thenn was
to be feared. A Thenn on a horse was to be avoided.

A sharp pang of fear interrupted Jon’s chain of thought.

Ghost.

Something was wrong. His direwolf was afraid. Jon could feel the wolf’s presence to the North
West of him, but whether Ghost was one mile away or ten only the gods could know. Jon shivered,
before turning back to his host.

Either Ghost would make it back or he would not. What Jon was more worried about was what it
was that had frightened a direwolf.

The further and further they seemed to push into these lands, the stranger and stranger things
seemed.

Jon rode around the bend and finally Craster’s Keep came into sight. The men around him gave a
ragged cheer, though what Jon saw did not give him much hope. He had never thought to find a
stone castle on the far side of the wall, but he had pictured some sort of motte and bailey with a
wooden palisade and a timber tower keep. What they found instead was a midden heap, a pig sty,
an empty sheepfold and a windowless daub and wattle hall scarce worthy of the name.

“A bad omen.” Brynden Bloodstark whispered as he nodded at the gate. The open gate was
flanked by a pair of animal skulls on high poles: a bear to one side, a ram to the other. Bits of flesh
still clung to the bear skull Jon noted as he rode past.

“And here we are riding through the gates with not one, but two Mormonts.” Quiver muttered.
“Just our luck.”

“If he tries anything,” Jon commanded Quiver, “Anything at all, put an arrow through his eye.”

Quiver nodded, and strung his bow. The yard was empty save for Qhorin Halfhand, and a young
girl who dashed away as soon as they arrived. Jon dismounted his horse and strode through the
grim gate, along with his most important captains and companions. His Weirwood Warrior’s had
not yet arrived, though Jon knew that they would not be far behind.

“Garth!” Jon called, and his loyal squire came running, Longclaw bouncing on his waist.

“Here m’lord!” He cried.

“Tell the Winter Wolves and Weirwood Warriors to set up their tents outside the walls. Only the
captains are to enter the compound. And have Roderick Walton come for me as soon as he
arrives.”

Garth nodded and rushed away and Jon turned to the Greatjon. “Ensure our boundaries are secure.
Organise a watch, and tell the sentries to keep an eye on all sides, not just the ones without a wall.”

The Greatjon bowed his head and strode away, while bellowing commands at those unfortunate
enough to be caught loitering within the Greatjon’s sight.

As Jon approached the flap of deerhide that served as a door, it was thrown open and another
young woman rushed out, almost in tears.

“And hurry up about it!!!!” A grizzled voice roared from inside.

Jon slipped through before the flap closed and drew the attention of the King of Craster’s Keep.
Once, a long time ago, Craster would have been a powerful man, but now he was nearing the end
of his life. His hair was grey and long, and his beard longer. His mouth drooped and his nose was
flat, making him look as cruel a man as Jon had ever seen. When he saw Jon, he smiled
gruesomely. His teeth were rotten and chipped, and Jon fought the urge to sneer back.

“Well, well, well” He said as Jon approached the light of the fire, “If you aren’t a Stark I am a
goat’s mother.”

Jon smiled coldly and noticed his uncle sitting beside Craster. His uncle’s mouth was drawn in a
thin line and his eyes were stern. His direwolf was nowhere to be seen.

“Aye.” Jon said as he stepped into the light of the campfire. “I am a Stark.”

“And not just any Stark either.” Craster snarled, “A Stark of Winterfell.”

“You sit beside a Stark of Winterfell.” Jon replied.

“No I don’t.” Craster sneered. “I sit beside a Stark of Hardhome. A Hardstark. A much lesser breed
of Stark I am told.”

“A Stark is a Stark.” Jon growled. “And Starks protect their own.”

Craster laughed. “He’s young this one!” He cried as he elbowed Uncle Benjen in the ribs, “Got
plenty of…bite in him still! He’s not completely frozen over like you!”

Benjen did not respond to Craster’s ribbing, instead choosing to ignore it.

“Sit boy,” Craster cried, “Sit! Have a seat at my right hand. I would have words with you!”

Jon strode around the campfire and sat down on the bench to Craster’s right. Around him his
captains and companions followed suit, and Craster glared at them suspiciously. “Who are these
men?”

“My men.” Jon replied. “Arthur Glenmore of Rillwater Crossing, Bryden Bloodstark of Bloody
Hall, Smalljon Umber of Last Hearth and Samwell Tarly of Horn Hill. The Captains of My Winter
Wolves and my squire, Garth Mormont.”

“Mormont?” Craster snarled as he squinted at the boy suspiciously, “You aren’t related to Jeor
Mormont by any chance?”

“Aye!” Garth crowed as he got to his feet, “He is my grandfather, and he is here as well, so show
us all the respect we are due.”

Craster stilled and Jon glared at Garth darkly. The boy sunk back down, his face flushed.
“Mormont is here?” he asked, his voice dark. For a second, no one dared to answer.

“Aye.” Jeor Mormont replied as he strode in through the doors of Craster’s Keep, Roderick Walton
trailing in his wake. “I am here. Along with three hundred sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch.”

“Crows.” Craster snarled. “When did a black bird ever bring good to a man’s hall I ask you?
Never.” He spat, “Never.”

“Jeor Mormont vouched to us of your character, Lord Craster.” Uncle Benjen said as he pulled a
wineskin from his belt and filled Craster’s horn. “We would not be here, bringing our gifts of wine
and gold if it were not for him.”

“You’d be here.” Craster grumbled as he lifted his horn to his lips and took a deep swallow. “It’s
not me you’re here for. You’ve come for word of Mance. You want to know where everyone has
gone.”
He said it as a statement, not a question.

“Aye.” Jon growled out as he sipped from his own horn of wine. “We’ve come for Mance. Do you
know where he is?”

“Mayhaps I do.” Craster shrugged, “Mayhaps I don’t. I’ll admit my old age has fogged my memory
a fair bit. There are a few things that can clear my memory though.”

“Yeah?” Jeor Mormont groused, “Like what?”

Craster eyed the axe at The Old Bear’s waist greedily. “Had no good southern wine up here for a
bear’s night. I could use me some wine, and a new axe. Mine’s lost its bite, can’t have that, I got
me some women to protect.

“Does that refresh your memory at all?”

“A little.” Craster replied as he picked up and the axe and fingered the edge of it. “I seem to
remember someone coming around here, trying to recruit me to The Mance’s cause. I just can’t
seem to remember where it was he wanted me to go…”

The Old Bear rolled his eyes. “Just tell me what you want in exchange for the information and I
will see it given to you.”

Craster snorted in amusement. “What I want is nothing you can give me.” Craster turned his gaze
back to Jon. “What I want only he can give me.”

“I’ve got no fancy axes to give you,” Jon warned, “And I’m in dire need of my sword in these
lands.”

“It’s not a sword or an axe or even gold I want off you!” Craster guffawed.

“Well then what is it you want?” Jon asked.

“I’ll admit I don’t much of your southern customs, but isn’t the eldest meant to be the next ruler of
the rest of you?”

“The eldest of my father will be the next Lord of Winterfell.” Jon replied.

“And?” Craster slavered as he leant forward hungrily, “Are you your father’s eldest son? Are you
the next Lord of Winterfell?”

Around him his men fingered their weapons nervously. Jon knew not if Craster would be foolish
enough to try anything against him, but if he did Jon doubted he would walk away totally
unscathed. The Wildling that could claim the head of the Heir of Winterfell would win much
renown throughout these lands, and followers would flock to his cause. The axe in Craster’s hand
gleamed in the torchlight, the well-honed edge as dangerous as that of Valyrian Steel in these close
quarters.

Jon had not thought Craster to be such a man, but it did not bode well. Out of the corner of his eye,
he noted Quiver pulling an arrow from his sheath, and nocking it to his drawstring.

“Aye.” Jon replied warily. “I am my father’s eldest son. I will be the next Lord of Winterfell.”

Craster nodded slowly, a hungry smile etched onto his face and leant back in his seat. “Your father
can make lords I’ve heard. He named your uncle lord of Hardhome didn’t he?”
“He did.” Jon replied cooly.

Craster snorted in disbelief. “As if Hardhome was his to give. I’m as worthy of Hardhome as your
uncle is, and that is not at all.”

“Do you dispute his claim?” Jon asked. “Would you like to settle it now? By steel perhaps?”

Craster sneered. “I’m not daft boy. I’d last five seconds in a fair fight against the Hardstark. It’s not
Hardhome that I’m interested in though. It’s the lordships.”

“You want to be named a lord.” Uncle Benjen stated.

“Aye.” Craster said as he nodded his head. “That sounds good. Lord Craster of Craster’s Keep. I
want your father and you to recognise all these lands as mine, from Whitetree to the Banks of The
Gorge. It’s all mine now, and I want you to recognise me as lord of it. I want your father to send me
troops to defend it and claim it.”

Jon stared at the old man, while his men shuffled nervously. After a moment, Jon burst into
laughter. “You want to be lord do you?” he mocked, “You want to bend the knee and grovel at my
feet? I took you for a man of the Free Folk, Craster, not a kneeler.”

Craster scowled. “I want to be a lord.” He insisted. “I want you to recognise me as one.”

“And you want all the responsibilities that come with being a lord too do you?” Jon asked. “You
want to swear an oath of fealty to me, you want to bend the knee to me every time I walk in the
room and you want to send a share of your harvest every year to me?”

“No.” Craster stated. “I want to be a lord.”

Jon shook his head. “No you don’t. You want to be left alone up here. You want an easy life for
the rest of your life. I can’t make you a lord, but here is what I can do. Every year three wagons of
supplies, southern grain, and southern wine and southern meat will be sent north for you. Every
year for the rest of your life, it will be yours if you help me now. Tell me all you know of Mance
Rayder and all that and more is yours.”

Jeor Mormont leant forward in his seat. “Every village we have passed has been abandoned. Yours
are the first living faces we have seen since we left The Wall. The people are gone … whether
dead, fled or taken I could not say. The animals as well. Nothing is left. Where have they gone?”

Craster stewed in silence.

“They are gone, aren’t they?” Another black cloaked ranger said. “Gone to join your king?”

“King!” cried Mormont’s raven. “King, king, king.”

“That Mance Rayder?” Craster spit into the fire. “King-Beyond-The-Wall. He’s no king of mine.
What do Free Folk want with kings?”

“What do Free Folk want with lordships?” Bryden Bloodtark muttered quietly as Craster turned his
gaze on The Old Bear. “There’s much I could tell you o’ Rayder and his doings, if I had a mind.
This o’ the empty villages, that’s his work. You could have found this hall abandoned as well, if I
were a man to scrape to such.” Craster sneered in anger. “He sends a rider, tells me I must leave
my own keep to grovel at his feet. I sent the man back, but I kept his tongue. It’s nailed to that wall
there.” He pointed. “Might be that I could tell you where to seek Mance Rayder. If I had a mind.”
At the back of the room, Roderick Walton stepped forth. “I could force the knowledge from you. If
I had a mind.”

Everyman in the room tensed in anticipation. Swords were loosened in their scabbards and the hilts
of daggers were grasped. Craster grasped the handle of his new axe and rose to his feet. “Is this
how a man is treated in his own hall?” He growled.

Roderick Walton stepped forth again, and this time not alone. Two wolves wandered in through the
doorway, and his golden eagle followed suit.

Craster paled at the sight of them. “Warg.” He muttered as he fell back in his chair.

Roderick Walton pointed at himself. “Warg.” He stated, “And Weirwood Warrior too. I’m a
fearsome man to make an enemy of Lord Craster. I’ve fought Kings and Lords and Peasants and
Wildings too. I’m still here, and if my blade could speak it would tell of a hundred battles and a
thousand deaths. Don’t add your life to that tally. Don’t make an enemy of me. Don’t make an
enemy of us. Help us know, and as Lord Jon has promised you, we shall help you.”

Craster nodded shakily. “You have one night in my hall, and I’ll tell you all I know. But then I’m
done with you and I never want to see your like again. You’ll eat none of my food, and touch none
of my wives. The man who does shall lose his hand.”

Jeor Mormont nodded stiffly. “Your house. Your rules.”

Craster nodded and took a large gulp from his drinking horn before settling back down with a last
distrustful look at Roderick Walton. “Get him out of here.” He finally said, “I don’t want his type.
Come to think of it, I don’t want any of your type. Leave me alone with the crows and The
Hardstark. At least they are kinder to me than you lot have been.”

“Your house. Your rules.” Jon repeated as he got to his feet. “I’ll see you outside.” He said to Jeor
Mormont and his uncle before he slipped outside.

Hours later, once the sun had set and the moon was high in the sky, Jon was roughly woken by a
shaking hand. He spun around to find Sam crouched next to him, wrapped in the cloak of one of
the Black Brothers.

“Sam?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep, “What is wrong?”

“Shhh.” Sam hissed as he put his fingers to his lips. “Come with me.”

Jon stumbled out of his sleeping furs and shrugged his boots and cloak on, before following Sam
out into the darkness. He could barely make Sam out in the darkness, and he struggled to keep up
with the husky lordling.

“Sam!” He hissed into the darkness, “Where have you gone?”

“Come!” Came the reply, “And hurry!”

He hurried down the gentle slope and away from Craster’s Keep, properly awake now. The cold
did that to a man in these lands. He found himself thinking of his sister’s, perhaps because he had
dreamed of them last night. Arya and Dyanna would have been running in this cold, racing each
other to keep warm. No doubt it would have ended with both picking up sticks and fighting
whomever out of Jon and Artos happened to pass by first. He doubted Alaric would have provided
much sport for the girls, he often preferred to sneer at them from afar.
“Lord Jon?” He heard. Meek and soft. He turned.

Crouched behind a tree was the young woman who had fled from him earlier, wrapped in a cloak
of brown bear fur so large it almost swallowed her.

“It’s alright Gilly.” Sam said as he approached from behind Jon. “Jon can help you. Jon is a Stark.
Starks are known for that.”

“Won’t Craster be angry with you?” Jon asked quickly, trying to stop this conversation before it
even began. He had no clue what she wanted, but he knew it was highly likely he would be unable
to give it.

“My father drank overmuch of your wine last night. He’ll sleep most of the day.” Her breath
frosted in the air in small nervous puffs. “They say lords give justice and protect the weak.” She
twisted uncomfortably, while Sam patted her back awkwardly. “It’s alright.” He said, “Just tell
him”

The poor girl dropped to her knees and burst into tears. “M’lord, I beg you-“

“Don’t beg of me anything.” Jon said coldy. “Go back to your hall, you shouldn’t be here. We were
told not to speak to you.”

“You don’t have to speak with me, m’lord. Just take me with you when you go, that’s all I ask.”

“All you ask?” Jon scoffed as he glared at Sam, “As if that were nothing?”

“I’ll be your wife, if you like. My father, he’s got nineteen now, one less won’t hurt none.”

“Enough.” Sam rumbled quietly. “Tell him of why you want to leave, Gilly.”

Gilly looked at Sam uncertainty for a second before she turned back to Jon. “It’s not for me, it’s for
the baby. If it’s a girl, that’s not so bad, she’ll grow a few years and he’ll marry her. But Nella says
it’s too be a boy, and she’s had six and knows these things. He gives the boys to the gods. Come
the white cold, he does, and of late it comes more often. That’s why he started giving them the
sheep, even though he has a taste for mutton. Only now the sheep’re gone too. Next it will be the
dogs, till…” She lowered her eyes and stroked her belly.

Jon’s blood ran cold. A memory stirred within him, a tale of Old Nan’s from when he was young.
All of his siblings had been there, Alaric too, though he was only two. ‘The wildlings lay down and
sleep with the Others and birth abominations, half others.’ Jon had smiled, but Alaric had frowned.
‘No they don’t.’ He had said. ‘They give their human sons to the Others. They don’t sleep with
them. I saw it in my dreams.’ Jon, Artos and his sisters had laughed at their grim little brother with
his strange nightmares, but now those memories struck him to his core.

“What gods?” He asked, his voice hollow, half fearing the answer he was about to receive. Jon was
remembering the tales he had heard of Craster and that they’d seen no boys in Craster’s Keep, nor
men either, save Craster himself.

“The cold gods.” She said. “The ones in the night. The white shadows.”

Jon stole a horrified glance at Sam. If she was telling the truth, this could be the reason for why all
the wildlings had disappeared. This could be why Mance was gathering them to his side. To
protect them from the cold gods who were coming down upon them all.

Jon turned back to Gilly. “Go back to your bed and lay down for the night,” he told her. “I promise
you that you will be free of Craster by the time the night is done.”

Gilly nodded and rushed away and Jon turned to his old friend. “I’m sorry Jon.” Sam said, “Once I
learned of the truth from her though, I knew you would want to know.”

“You did the right thing.” Jon affirmed. “But what am I meant to do with the knowledge? What to
do with Craster?”

“We are under guest rights.” Sam informed him. “So we can’t move against him.”

“Not all of us.” Jon replied. “I partook of no salt nor bread and I instructed none of the captains of
either the Winter Wolves or the Weirwood Warriors to do so. Most of them have not even entered
the keep. The Greatjon is also not under guest rights. We can use all of them, four hundred Winter
Wolves and three hundred Weirwood Warriors.”

“We won’t even need all of them. Craster is only one man.”

Jon stewed on Sam’s words for a moment, before making up his mind on what to do. “Go find me
Roderick Walton and the Greatjon.” He instructed him. “Bring them to me, along with my uncle
and we shall make up our mind how to deal with them.”

Sam nodded and rushed away, while Jon lowered himself to his haunches. Around him the woods
were alight with moonlight, and fog hung in the air. From the darkness of the shadows, a white
apparition melted out of the moonlight.

Ghost’s muzzle was coated in blood, and a rabbit hung between his teeth. He scampered over to
Jon, and nuzzled into his chest, before dropping the rabbit at his feet. Jon ruffled the white wolf’s
fur, before picking the rabbit up and hanging it from his belt. It would make a wonderful breakfast
for himself. “Thanks boy.” He whispered.

It was as he went to rub his belly that he first noticed the long cut along his back. The blood hadn’t
even had time to run down his pale fur, before it had frozen over. It had frozen in a long, black line,
similar to the blackness that graced the tips of his uncle’s ears.

“What happened to you?” He asked as he prodded the blackness. The change in Ghost was
immediate. His ears flattened to his skull and he bared his teeth at Jon in a silent growl. Jon
stumbled back and held his hands up, calmlingly. “S’alright.” He soothed the sore wolf, “It’s only
me.”

A twig snapped to Jon’s left and his blad was halfway from his scabbard before he realised who it
was. “Uncle.” He greeted as he returned his blade to his sheath.

“Jon.” He replied as he took a seat on a nearby log. “Sam said you wanted to see me.”

“I do.” Jon replied, “But Sam was meant to bring Roderick and the Greatjon too.”

“We’re here.” The Greatjon hoarsely whispered as he approached out of the darkness, Sam and
Roderick Walton at his side. “What have you called us for?”

“Craster has no sons.” Jon stated. Uncle Benjen shifted uncomfortably on his log, while the
Greatjon frowned. “Aye.” The Greatjon said. “What of it?”

“Where are they all?” Jon asked, “For a man with so many daughters why does he have no sons?”

“The wildlings believe he eats them.” Uncle Benjen said as he stared back towards Craster’s Keep.
Jon gave his uncle a flat stare and his uncle shrugged. “That’s not what his daughter-wife told me.”

Uncle Benjen looked at him sharply. “You spoke to one of his wives?” He hissed.

“Aye.” Jon replied, his voice hard. “And she told me the truth of things, more truth than we would
ever get from Craster.”

“What has she been telling you?” Uncle Benjen asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

“He gives his sons to his gods. She worries for the child within her womb. She fears he will give it
to his gods too if it’s a boy.”

The Greatjon frowned. “Our gods are cruel boy. If Craster thinks his sons are the price he must pay
for the protection of our gods, then so be it. It is a sad fate for the babes, but I am no Green Man to
judge on matters such as this.”

“Not our gods.” Jon replied. “His gods. The Cold Gods. The ones in the night. The White Shadows.
The Others.”

Jon’s declaration was met with stunned silence before his uncle sneered. “Are you hearing yourself
Jon? Others?” He spat with derision. “You’ve been listening to too many of Old Nan’s tales.”

Jon went to respond, but he was cut off by Roderick Walton. He stepped forward, menacingly.
“You knew.” He stated as he glared at Uncle Benjen. Uncle Benjen looked shocked for a second,
before his features twisted into a scowl. “All men that spend any time beyond the wall learn of
what Craster does. I learnt it from Qhorin Halfhand, who learnt it from a ranger, who learnt it from
a ranger, who learnt it from Craster himself. No man agrees with it, but Craster is the friend the
Watch and I need in these lands.”

Jon stared at his uncle shocked. “You knew?” He asked, his voice gutted with disbelief. Uncle
Benjen looked at Jon sadly. “Aye, Jon.” He replied, “But there is something you must understand.
They are rumours and no more than that. Old Nan would tell you the Others have been gone for
eight thousand years, while my Maester would say they never existed at all.”

“And if the rumours are true.” The Greatjon snarled, his voice wroth. “What then? Why didn’t you
bring this before your brother and the High Council. We could have devoted some men to
discerning the truth of them!”

Uncle Benjen snorted angrily. “If I brought before my brother every rumour and fishwife’s tale that
ran throughout these lands I would never leave Winterfell again for the rest of my life. You hear
many strange things out here, and the return of the Others,” Uncle Benjen scoffed, “that’s the most
mundane of them all.”

“I will discern the truth of them.” Jon said as he turned back to Craster’s Keep. “Rouse your men,
Roderick. We take Craster captive tonight, before the sun has risen. Be careful to wake none of the
Black Brother’s or my uncle’s men. I want no treachery now.”

“Jon!” Uncle Benjen, aghast. “We are under guest right! You cannot break guest right!”

“Not me.” Jon replied, “And nor is Roderick Walton and any of his men, or Greatjon Umber and
any of his men.”

Uncle Benjen leapt to his feet. “No.” He barked, his voice made of steel. “Your father may have
granted command of this expedition, but he placed you under the command of me and these other
men. You will not touch Craster, on this night or any of the nights to come.”
“No.” The Greatjon rumbled, his voice dark with hurt and betrayal. “We take Craster tonight. End
him now, and even if they are just rumours, we have still saved nineteen women from misery and
who knows how many more to come…”

Uncle Benjen narrowed his eyes at the Greatjon. “You would place such stock in rumours and
myths such as those? Stock enough to break guest right?”

The Greatjon’s gaze turned distant. “To the south Giants and Mammoths and Direwolves are but a
myth.” He stated, “I myself have seen men that can bind monsters with their wits alone, men that
have survived what would kill lesser men and your own brother was both a wolf and a man. All of
these are stranger and more obscene than cold gods that are worshipped by wildings. What is there
that makes you think that Others cannot exist too?”

“I’ve lived in these lands!” Benjen almost roared, “If any Others were living amongst us, then you
would be sure that I would have seen or heard of them!”

“Would have you?” Roderick Walton asked, his voice neutral. “You’ve just shown us that you’re
willing to turn a blind eye to such things.”

Uncle Benjen stewed in silence, his eyes dark with wroth and anger, but Jon was done with the
arguing. Action had to be taken, it was either now or never. “For all that I don’t agree with what
my uncle has said tonight, he was right about one thing. I am under your authority, my lords.” Jon
turned to Roderick and pierced him with the fiercest gaze he could muster. “The Greatjon and my
uncle have made their will known. The decision rests with you, Lord Commander. Shall we take
Craster tonight, or shall we continue to let him continue his abominable practices?”

The Lord Commander watched Jon with empty eyes, before turning to Uncle Benjen. “I’m sorry
Benjen.” He said coolly. “But you don’t know what signs my men and I have been seeing. I’m the
closest thing there is to a Green Men without actually being one, and some of the things I have
seen in the last few months, written in the stars, in the boughs of the weirwoods and in the realms
of my dreams have left me scared. Craster may hold the answer to the questions that I have because
of them. We take him tonight, and we end this now.”

Uncle Benjen scoffed in anger and shook his head. “You’re all fools.” He hissed, his voice black.
“And where shall we rest when we come back this way? Where shall we find food and shelter
when the wrath of the wild is battering at us? In five years, when a Black Brother bears news of the
next King-Beyond-The-Wall, where shall he find the respite he needs to survive?”

Roderick looked away, to the distant tips of the frostfangs, which could be just seen in the predawn
darkness. “Better to rest in the wild, than rest in the halls of a man such as Craster.”

Uncle Benjen shook his head and unclipped his sword from his belt. He threw it at Jon’s feet.
“Take it boy.” He spat. “I want nothing to do with the rest of tonight, and neither do any of my
men. Let it nor be said in these lands that the Hardstark did not warn against this course.”

With that he turned his back, and strode away.

“Go after him.” Jon told the Greatjon. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

The Greatjon nodded and strode after him, while Jon turned to the Lord Commander of the
Weirwood Warriors. “Rouse your men quickly. Arm them and armour them and gather them in
silence before the gate. I want this hall free of Craster’s name before the sun has risen.”

Roderick nodded and rushed off, while Jon and Sam strode up the hill towards Craster’s Keep,
blade and axe in hand and ready to spill the blood of whoever stood in their way.
 Tyrion II: A Clash of Kings
Chapter Summary

Tyrion leaves the North and enters into a shitshow. Please leave a comment and tell
me what you think, this is the second longest chapter so far, behind only the Second
House of the Wolf.

Chapter Notes

I'm back. Sorry for the wait, it's been far to long.

I'm aiming to have the next chapter up sometime in between Monday and Wednesday,
it's from Visery's POV.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When Tyrion had left the North, suspicion had been writ onto the faces of every man he met along
the way. From Last Hearth to Moat Cailin, men greeted him with wary eyes and grim lips. Few had
laughed with him, and fewer had spoken with him. It was when he was half way past Winterfell
that he realised something. He was being kept in a bubble. His ‘escort’ kept him away from places
where he may have learned something, and kept him on the Kingsroad. Every inn he came too was
deserted of smallfolk and only inhabited by the grim Winter Wolves. His own men were kept on a
tight leash, Jyck and Dywen told to stick with Tyrion in order to not be confused as bandits and
killed.

In the end, Tyrion managed to figure out what had happened after a chance meeting with a trader
on the road just before Moat Cailin. Most of his stock was normal price, books and silks and cloths
and the like. His steel and foodstuffs though had been priced through the roof, as high a rates as
Tyrion had ever seen.

Tyrion had read more books than he cared to count. He had read of the Conquest and the Dance
and all the Blackfyre Rebellions, from the first to the last. He had read of wars in Essos and
Westeros and the lands beyond The Jade Gates. He knew the signs of war when they came, and
high prices for Steel and Foodstuffs, the bread and butter of any war, was a sure sign a war was
being waged somewhere close by.

The fact that Tyrion’s head was still attached to his shoulders, and Tommen’s corpse was not
swinging from the gates of Winterfell, told Tyrion that the Starks were yet to choose a side in the
war. As he lay awake at night he often wondered what Cersei had done to spark it. Who else would
have sparked it? Robert was many things, a warmonger amongst them, but his days of fighting real
wars were long gone. Tyrion would be surprised if the Whoremonger King was even still alive.

Moat Cailin was where he was at now, locked up in a small room underneath one of the
monstrosities that these northmen called towers. His own men had been sequestered in their own
rooms, and the guards at all their doors ensured they would not wander where they were not
welcome. Tyrion knew not if it was day or not, the cell he was in was windowless, the only light
being a candle that was burning concernedly low.

Tyrion would have spent the time in the cramped cell reading, but all of his possesions had been
seized by the young boy with the Bull-Headed helm. He was now the Master of the Moat from
what Tyrion had understood. Where Brynden Tully had gone, Tyrion did not know, but it did not
bode well either. The Blackfish was a master at war and fought and survived more battles than
perhaps any other man in the realm, Ser Barristan Selmy being the exception. If he had left the
service of the Stark’s to defend his homeland, then Tyrion would be walking right into the middle
of a war zone. He knew not which way the riverlords would fall when it came to war, but Tyrion
knew that the blackfish was no friend of Tyrion’s and neither his father.

His thoughts were interrupted by a pounding at his door, before it was thrown open by one of the
guards. “Gather your things.” The man barked, “You’re to be escorted through the gates within the
hour.”

Tyrion smiled and picked up the one candle in the entire room. “Mind if I keep this as a memento
of my wonderful visit to the bastion of the First Men?”

The guard rolled his eyes at his companion before grasping him by the collar of his shirt and
yanking him out of the room. “C’mon.” The other guard grumbled, “We don’t have all day. Lord
Durrandon wants to speak to you too before you leave.”

Tyrion frowned at the guard. Maybe he had heard wrong. “Lord who?”

“Lord Durrandon.” The guard barked back, before hitting him across the back of his head with the
butt of his spear. “And stop asking so many questions. Keep your mouth shut and this will be
easier for all of us.”

The two guards guffawed as Tyrion stumbled, but Tyrion ignored them both and instead turned his
attentions to this Lord Durrandon. As far as Tyrion knew the Durrandon line was dead, rendered
extinct by the Targaryen’s during the conquest. All that was left of the legacy of the Storm King’s
was… “The boy.” Tyrion muttered to himself. He snorted in amusement. So the bastard had been
made a lord had he? He was sure Cersei would be glad to hear it. Perhaps Lord Stark wanted to sit
a king of his own upon the Iron Throne? A nice little puppet that would be well in touch with his
first men roots.

Tyrion was marched through the castle and towards the main gates, where he found his men and
all of his belongings awaiting for him along with Lord Durrandon.

This was the first time Tyrion had seen the boy up close, and the resemblance to Robert was
uncanny. The same powerful arms, the same strong jaw, the same coal black hair and striking blue
eyes and the same hammer, resting by his side. The biggest difference between Robert and the boy
though was that Robert would never have been found with a book in his hands, while the boy was
pawing through one as Tyrion approached.

“Lord Tyrion.” The boy greeted as Tyrion arrived, before snapping the book shut. “Would you
mind telling me where you got this?”

He held the book up and Tyrion smiled sheepishly. It was The Bloody Blessed Bastard. Almost
impossible to find outside the North, it recounted the life and times of Brandon Snow, one of the
more fascinating men to have ever lived in Tyrion’s opinion. Tyrion also knew that the northerners
were highly protective of their bastard, and protected writings on him at all costs. He had thought
he had hidden it well, but clearly not well enough.
“I found it.” Tyrion replied, “I stopped in at a small inn a few days ride south of the wall, and
someone had left it lying in the room I had rented.”

“And you just decided that since it was their unclaimed, it was your right to claim it?”

Tyrion shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone telling me no.”

The boy grunted back, before passing the book to one of the guards. “See that taken to the library.”

“I assume I don’t get to keep my book then?” Tyrion asked.

“You assume correct.” The boy replied. “Now come. Mount up. I’ll escort you as far south as the
end of the Crannogs, but by then you will be on your own.”

Tyrion nodded, before rushing over to check if the rest of his belongings where still there. He had
collected more than one oddity on this trip that he wanted to check where still there.

“Fear not.” He heard the boy say. “You can keep the rest of the stuff you took. None of it is that
valuable or important anyway.”

Tyrion grunted in acknowledgement, but checked them all the same. The shard of mammoth’s horn
was still there, as was the few other books he had collected and the obsidian blade he had picked
up from a trader in Winterfell. Such blades were all the rage in the north, and used for ceremonial
purposes he was told. Tyrion had even been told that such a blade had been the one to end Rhaegar
Targaryen’s life as well, thrust into his heart by the Burnt Lord.

The Burnt Lord was a man that Tyrion had almost desperately wanted to meet, but yet alas, the
man was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t been seen in four years by northern standards and nine by
southern standards. Where he was now, no one seemed to know, not even Lord Stark. Tyrion had
discreetly inquired after him when he had been in Winterfell but most of his questions where either
met with cold stares or fearful glances. The Burnt Lord was just as much of a mystery to the realm
as he was when he had first sallied south with his armies all those years ago.

“Are you coming, Lord Tyrion?” The boy called from atop his own horse, “Or would you prefer
that we returned you to your cell?”

With a start, Tyrion realised that everyone was waiting on him and he hopped astride his little
pony as fast as he could. With a kick to its flanks, he was trotting after the boy and his guards,
while Tyrion’s own men trailed behind them.

Their trip through the neck was dismally boring. Many times Tyrion tried to goad the boy into
conversing with him, but he shrugged him off with grunts, shrugs and one word answers. At night,
Tyrion couldn’t bear to be outside his tent as the swamps spooked him. Often he thought he was
seeing movement in every shadow, and from what chatter he did manage to overhear, he
understood the crannogmen where watching them.

For three days they made their way down the narrow causeway of the Neck, and in the middle of
the morning on the fourth, they finally made it out of the neck and into the rolling pastures and low
hills of the Riverlands. “It is here that I leave you, my lord.” The boy told him, his horned bull’s
helmet making his voice echo strangely.

“Ah.” Tyrion said, strangely saddened. The boy’s stubbornness had worn off on Tyrion, and he
found himself enjoying his company on the road. He reminded him of what he had hoped Robert to
be before he had known the man. “I’m sorry to hear it. You won’t provide an escort for me to
King’s Landing.”
“No.” The boy replied. “My orders were to see you to the end of the Neck and then to return to
Moat Cailin. You’re on your own from here on out.”

“Farewell then.” Tyrion said as his horse picked its way forward, Jyck and Dywen already a few
meters ahead.

The boy raised a hand in farewell, before turning around and marshalling his troops into two
marching columns. Within minutes they were gone, back into the black bogs from which they had
come.

When they were well and truly gone and Tyrion had put a good hour of hard riding in between him
and the Neck, he turned to his men. “We are going to ride straight for the Twins.”

“The Twins, m’lord?” Jyck asked dubiously, “Whatever for?”

“I have a wish to live, Jyck.” Tyrion replied. “I’m almost certain that somewhere between here and
King’s Landing is a hostile army that Lord Stark wants me to bump into on the way.”

“An army?” Dywen asked, “What would an army be around for? For there to be an army there
needs to be a war.”

“Exactly.” Tyrion replied. “And there is a war nearby, of that I am certain.”

“What makes you say that?” Jyck asked.

“The Merchant.” Dywen replied, his eyes alighting with understanding. Dywen was an older man
and had been in service to his family for a long time. His hair was not yet grey, but he was
definitely old enough to have seen and remembered Robert’s Rebellion. “His prices. They were too
high.”

“Aye.” Tyrion replied, “That was one of the things that determined such a war was occurring, but I
have been wary of such a thing as this since leaving the wall. It was written onto the face of every
man I came across. I saw it in the weariness in their eyes. I saw it in the droop of their faces, and
the way that every second man carried a sword or spear.”

“The Twins though?” Jack asked, “Why the Twins? They’d be just as likely to sell us to the highest
bidder.”

“Aye they would.” Tyrion replied, “And it’s a good thing that no man bids higher than a
Lannister.”

At this Dywen laughed. “That’s true enough.”

The next few days were tense, and every noise and shadow had his men jumping to their feet and
reaching for their swords, but no one came for them and they encountered no one on their way to
the twins. The villages were deserted or locked, and the holdfasts opened their gates to none.

It was late in the afternoon when Tyrion spied the Twins, where the Lords of the Crossing had
their seat. The bridge was a massive arch of smooth grey rock, wide enough for two wagons to ride
abreast. One glance was sufficient to tell that the realm was indeed at war. The battlements bristled
with spears and scorpions, there was an archer at every crenel and arrow slit, the drawbridge was
up, the portcullis down, the gates closed and barred.

Jyck began to curse as soon as he saw it. “There’s no way they’re going to let us through there.” He
said, “They’ve got that place locked up tighter than a virgin’s cunt.”
“Be patient.” Tyrion advised, “Dywen, raise my banner.”

Dywen did so, and soon enough a sally port opened, a plank bridge slid across the moat, and a
dozen knights rode forth to confront them, led by Lord Walder Frey’s many sons.

Ser Stevron Frey, Lord Walder’s heir, spoke for them. He looked much like a weasel, as did all his
brothers. So too did Tyrion’s cousins, the ones that were his through his Aunt Genna. It seemed
that Lord Frey had strong seed, though not necessarily good seed.

“Ser Stevron!” Tyrion cried at once, “It is so good to see my father’s good family again! It has
been far too long!”

“Lord Tyrion.” Ser Stevron replied gravely, though Tyrion thought he saw a hint of amusement in
the knight’s pale grey eyes. “My father would be most honoured if you would share meat and mead
with him in the castle and explain your purpose here.”

“Of course.” Tyrion replied, with a wide grin. “I would be honoured to share a meal with your
father.”

He had gotten his foot in the door. The coming hours would tell if this was a wise course or not, or
perhaps a course that had not needed to be taken at all. They rode forward, across the sally bridge
and into the Twins.

Tyrion had once heard it said that Lord Walder was the only lord in the seven kingdoms who could
field an army from his breeches. When Lord Walder greeted Tyrion in the great hall of the East
Castle, Tyrion understood what they meant. He was surrounded by twenty of his sons and more
daughters, grandchildren, bastards and grand-bastards than Tyrion cared to count.

“Lord Walder!” Tyrion called in greeting, “It is a pleasure to finally meet you after so many years!
My father and aunt have told me so many stories about you!”

“Have they now?” Lord Walder asked, his eyes squinting at Tyrion suspiciously.

“Of course.” Tyrion laughed, “Stories of your cunning and your wealth, your large family and
larger armies!”

Lord Walder sneered at him. “Quit your bleating boy.” He growled, “You’re nowhere near as
convincing as you think, imp. Tell me what you want and this’ll be over faster than you can say!”

“I want passage of course.” Tyrion replied. “Passage over your bridge, and perhaps some men at
arms to escort me back to Casterly Rock and my father.”

Lord Walder began to laugh. It was an ugly sound, somewhere between a grunt and a cackle. “And
would you like me to open my coffers while you’re here? Perhaps you’d like me to present all my
daughters and granddaughters to you, naked as their name days and bent over for you, aye?”

“Why would I want such things?” Tyrion replied, “I haven’t asked for much, Lord Walder, just
passage…”

“Just passage!” Lord Walder cried. “Just Passage! In times like these, giving you just passage
could see me losing my head!”

“Losing your head?” Tyrion scoffed, “I assure you, Lord Walder, should anyone threaten you for
helping me, my father will see you both protected against your foes and rewarded for assisting
me!”
At this the whole crowd of Frey’s tittered. “Have you not heard, Lord Tyrion?”

“Heard what?” Tyrion asked, fighting to keep calm.

“Your father’s claws have been plucked from the way the Valemen are telling it.”

“What do you mean?” Tyrion asked, horror creeping into his voice.

“Lord Ronnel Arryn captured your brother, Jaime, and then fell upon and defeated the Vanguard’s
your father had sent to get him back. They say he captured Ser Addam Marbrand’s vangaurd,
fought off the Mountain’s and then routed what men were left. They say he rides against your
father even now, gathering more and more swords to his cause!”

Tyrion’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Lord Ronnel Arryn?” He asked, “Whatever happened to
Lady Lysa and Lord Robin and Denys Arryn?”

At this the whole hall burst into roars of laughter. “Where have you been Imp?” One Frey cried as
tears streamed from his eyes. “Both Denys and Lysa are dead, Lady Lysa by Lord Stark and Lord
Denys by your own sister! As for the boy, no one knows where that bastard has gone.”

Tyrion frowned as he took in this news. “Well then,” he said once the laughter had died down
enough for him to be heard, “I guess it is time we negotiate then.”

“Negotiate?” Lord Walder asked, “Whatever for? The way I see it, it is simple. We clap you in
chains and see you to Ronnel Arryn. We hears he has a penchant for Lannister blood at the
moment.”

To Tyrion’s surprise though, no one moved to do such an act. It seemed the decision had not yet
been made. “Why haven’t you then?” Tyrion asked.

At this question, Lord Walder’s face puckered like a fish. “Arryns.” He snorted with disdain,
“proud and splendid, blathering on about their honour. Lords of the Eyrie, Protectors of the Vale,
and recently Hands of the King, great jobs those two have done!” He cackled. “One died, pushing
the realm to the brink of war, and the other pushed it off the brink! They think they’re so great,
they can come and ask for my help if they want it so badly!” He snorted angrily. “Not even a
rider!” He exclaimed, “Not even a raven!”

“Well here I am.” Tyrion stated. “Asking for your help.”

“And yet what is the point?” Lord Walder asked, “Why would I help you when the fall of your
house seems to be nigh?”

Tyrion laughed out aloud at that. “Any man who discounts my father so cheaply must not value his
life very much. Ronnel Arryn is a boy, my father a veteran of three wars, and more battles than
most men in this realm. When the time comes, my father will emerge victorious as he always has.”

Lord Walder nodded at Tyrion. “That’s a fair point.” He groused, “But I still ain’t sending any of
my troops to die for your father. I’d say your father has a lot of battles to lose before he has any
hopes of winning this one.”

“Perhaps.” Tyrion replied with a lot more conviction than he felt, “But he will win it regardless.”

“I’ll get you to the other side of the river.” Lord Walder said. “But if your father loses this war, you
were never here. Do you hear me?”
“Aye.” Tyrion replied. “I hear you. There’s many boats around this part isn’t there? Jyck here,
knows how to handle one of them, don’t you Jyck?”

At Tyrion’s prodding Jyck nodded. “Aye.” He exclaimed. “I do.”

Lord Walder nodded. “Good. Get out of here then. I have no more need for you in my hall.”

And with that, his meeting with Lord Walder was over. As quickly as the Frey’s had come they
disappeared and Tyrion found himself beside Ser Stevron once more, riding his horse over the
Green Fork, until he was safe on the Western Bank of the river.

“Thank you, my lord of Frey.” Tyrion cried as he and his two companions, along with two
sellswords Tyrion had managed to secure the services of, rode away from the dismal castle and on
towards safety hopefully.

Two weeks passed by, and Tyrion had never seen a more beautiful sight than the one of his
father’s war camp outside the walls of Riverrun. Never had tents looked so enticing and smoke
smelt so good.

They were met by outriders led by Ser Flement Brax more than a mile from the camp. The fact that
Tyrion had managed to get so close without being approached before greatly concerned him.
Tyrion was not as versed in the arts of war as his father, but if Tyrion could get this close without
wanting to hide, how close could their enemies get?

“Lord Tyrion.” Ser Flement exclaimed when he saw him. “We thought you to be in chains!”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Tyrion replied. “I’m sure my father will have much to say on the matter.
Will you take me to him?”

“As you say, my lord.” Ser Flement replied, before turning his horse around and guiding them back
towards the Lannister camp. He called to the sentries manning the fortifications and three lines of
pickets were removed to allow them access.

Lord Tywin’s camp was sequestered on the western bank of the Green Fork, and stretched over
several leagues. The sellsword Bronn had estimated the camp to be twenty thousand when he had
first spied them encampment from afar, and Tyrion guessed that he could not be far off. The
common men were camped out in the open, but the knights had thrown up tents and some of the
High Lords had erected pavilions as large as houses. Tyrion spied the red ox of the Presters, Lord
Crakehall’s brindled boar, the burning tree of Marbrand, the badger of Lydden.

Over the banks of the river, Riverrun loomed ominously. All its gates were barred shut, and
defenders walked its walls. The fact that two of those walls were not under siege did not seem to
occur to the castle’s defenders, whom instead seemed to keep just as vigilant watch on the empty
east as they did the lion filled west.

He found his father’s pavilion erected in the centre of the camp, larger and grander than any other
pavilion Tyrion had seen. Outside, a pair of house guards in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms
stood guard under inn’s sign, on either side of the doorway. Tyrion recognised their captain. “My
father?”

“In the common room in the middle, m’lord.”

“My men will want meat and mead.” Tyrion told him. “See that they get it.” He entered the tent,
stepped through a silken door, and there was Father.
Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, was in his middle fifties and yet
hard as a man of twenty. Even seated, he was tall, with long legs, broad shoulders and a flat
stomach. His thin arms were corded with muscle.

Ser Kevan sat beside him, and it was him who saw him first.

“Uncle.” Tyrion greeted as his uncle’s eyes rose in surprise. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Tyrion!” His uncle cried as he got to his feet. “We thought you captured or…worse.”

Tyrion smiled at his father, who had not moved a muscle since Tyrion had entered the tent, save
for his eyes which followed Tyrion’s movements coldly. “Sorry to disappoint.” He chuckled
darkly, “Though a few times it came quite close. Though not as close as it has come for Jaime,
aye?”

“Jest all you want,” His father snarled, “But you will not jest of that!”

Tyrion shrugged. “It’s either laugh or cry. Jaime would have wanted me to laugh.”

“He shouldn’t want you to do anything. He should be here now, leading hosts in my name. Instead
I’ve got you. What am I to do with you in war?”

Tyrion tried not to let his anger or shame show on his face, but from the way his uncle looked at
him, Tyrion guessed he had failed. “How is your war going?”

Tyrion noticed anger play across his father’s features, while his uncle winced. When no response
was forthcoming, Tyrion saw fit to provide his own. “That bad is it?”

Father nodded at Uncle Kevan, and Kevan unrolled the map at his side. “It’s rapidly going from
bad to worse. When your brother was captured, it took us time to assemble our armies. Your father
sent two vanguards too break the Arryn host, one under Ser Addam Marbrand, the other under Ser
Gregor Clegane. Both were defeated, Ser Addam was captured and Ser Gregor beaten off. Lord
Tully refused to call his banners in aiding either side so much of the riverlords have taken to
declaring for one side or the other themselves. Bracken and Blackwood have taken the opportunity
to rekindle their old conflict, while The Blackfish has gathered an army of woodsmen to his cause
and is harassing us everywhere we turn. He’s been killing our outriders, looting our baggage trains
and disrupting our supply lines. He is the reason that this is a half assed siege. The only positive is
that he is harassing the Arryn’s in equal measure.”

“And how is our dear friend, Ronnel going?”

“As well as can be for a boy so green he pisses grass.” His uncle replied. “The Arryn’s are
sweeping west and south, intent on crushing us and Joffrey and anyone else who gets in their way.”

“And that’s not even the worst of it.” His father finally spoke. “Renly has declared himself a king,
wedding the Tyrell wench and gaining the banners of the Reach. My scouts and spies suggest his
host is as much as 80,000 strong.”

Tyrion whistled lowly. That was an impressive number, larger than even the host that Aegon the
Conqueror had defeated on the Field of Fire. “What of Stannis though?” He queried, “Has he sat
by and let his younger brother take his crown?”

“Joffrey’s crown.” Father snapped back, and Tyrion nodded in agreement. “And as for what he has
done…well he is the most dangerous of them all. Of all them, he is the true enemy, the one that I
fear.”
“What has he done?” Tyrion asked, fear creeping into his own voice. Any man his father feared,
was one to watch.

“The Spider has sent me many ravens. He speaks of ships and swords gathering to the isle, the
strength of Blackwater Bay. He speaks of shipbuilding and the hiring of sellswords. He speaks of
Stannis bringing a shadow binder from Asshai. Of those, I am not concerned. But the Spider says
that the Onion Lord of the north has come to serve him.”

“The North has declared for Stannis?”

“Not yet.” Uncle Kevan replied. “Though what they plan to do is anyone’s guess.”

“The Onion Lord advised him to sign the services of Torrhen Snow. And he did.” His father
declared, ignoring him and his uncle.

Tyrion’s heart dropped in his chest. Of all the foes Tyrion feared to face, Stannis and Torrhen were
at the very top of the list, behind only The Burnt Lord and perhaps his own father. He could still
remember the day that Torrhen Snow had sailed into Lannisport upon his Black Leviathan,
bringing treasures and rarities from beyond the Sunset Sea, the first man in history to do so. “That
is…”

“The bitterest of blows.” His father admitted, “I had hoped to win him to our side, and had already
sent the envoys. He alone could have ended Stannis for us, and instead he may be the one to end
us.”

“Is it that bad?” Tyrion asked. For his father to admit that they might not win this war, was like the
sky falling on all of their heads. Something no man expected to see.

“Worse.” His uncle replied. “Cersei has run King’s Landing into the ground. Denys and Alys
Arryn, dead. Mark Ryswell, dead. Ser Barristan Selmy, dismissed and now missing.”

“Dead, dismissed and missing?” Tyrion asked.

“Aye.” His father growled, his voice tense with anger. “Madness. Rank Madness. Selmy lent
honour to the name of any king whom commanded him, and Ryswell was a fine sword and a finer
rider. Commoners and Lords alike loved him, as did the northmen.”

His hand curled into a fist. “And now his death haunts us…The Crag has been sacked and taken in
his name. Four days ago three and a half thousand northmen fell upon it, led by three boys.”

“It’s another grievous blow.” His uncle confessed. “They are led by Asher Forrester, Edric
Darkstark and Rickon Riverstark. It was the Riverstark ships that got them there.”

“So the North has entered the war then?” Tyrion asked, dreading the answer. “Will the Neck soon
erupt with banners of white and grey?”

“Thank the gods not.” His father replied. “Lord Stark has advised me that he will be staying neutral
in the conflict for now, but he has sent envoys to each and every declared king in this war. Our
envoys await us in King’s Landing supposedly. Who they are, I do not know. You will find out
soon enough, I suppose.”

“And what of the Greyjoys?” Tyrion asked, “Have they picked a side yet, or crowned one of their
own?”

His father looked at him strangely. “I will deal with the Greyjoys. I hope to make friends of them.
If they can keep Renly occupied until we have either dealt with the Arryn boy or Stannis we will
have done well for ourselves.”

“The Ironborn are our enemies though.”

“They were the Stark’s too yesterday. Now their houses are as close as can be. Tomorrow they will
be as close to us as well. With what I have offered them, they cannot refuse.”

“Do we march for King’s Landing then?” Tyrion asked.

“You do.” Father replied as he turned around.

“I do?” Tyrion exclaimed, “What am I meant to do in King’s Landing?”

“Rule.” His father replied curtly.

Tyrion hooted with laughter. “My sweet sister may have a word or two to say about that!”

A sneer flickered across his father’s features. “Let her say what she likes. Her son needs to be taken
in hand before he ruins us all. Half the small council is missing as well, they will need replacing.”

“Who will?”

“Baelish was killed by Lord Stark, Pycelle by Denys Arryn. Stannis and Renly were the other two
members. All we have left to us is Lord Varys. No wonder Joffrey is making so many mistakes. He
needs a firm hand to keep him in line. If Cersei cannot curb the boy, you must. And if anyone is
playing us false…”

Tyrion knew. “Spikes.” He sighed. “Heads. Walls.”

His father nodded approvingly. “Try not to make us anymore enemies while you are there. We
have enough as it is. If you can, pay off the North and Dorne with seats on the council. Keep them
out of the war, or even better bring them into the war on our side. Be careful though, we have no
friends in either places.”

“We have no friends anywhere it seems.” Tyrion remarked. “But I will do my best to make us
some.”

---

“You!” Cersei cried as soon as she saw him, “What are you doing here!?”

Tyrion grinned crookedly. “I’m here to deliver a letter from Father.” He plucked the sealed scroll
from his sleeve and extended it to her, for her to read. She glared at him, before plucking the scroll
from his fingers and breaking the seal.

While she busied herself reading it, Tyrion found himself a bottle of wine and settled into a comfy
couch. The ride from Riverrun had been long and hard, and Tyrion had feared he wouldn’t make it.
Falcons and Fish were nowhere to be found though, and Tyrion’s journey had been as uneventful as
a journey could be when a war was being waged.

“Has father lost his senses? Or did you forge this letter?” She read it once more, with mounting
annoyance. “Why would he inflict you on me? I wanted him to come himself.” She crushed Lord
Tywin’s letter in her fingers. “I am Joffrey’s regent, and I sent him a royal command.”

“And he ignored you.” Tyrion pointed out. “He has quite a large army, he can do that. Nor is he the
first. Is he?”

Cersei’s mouth tightened. He could see colour rising. “If I name this letter a forgery and tell them
to throw you in a dungeon, no one will ignore that, I promise you.”

Tyrion smiled widely. “Please.” He begged, “Do it. Throw me in the cells. It’s a sight I would love
to see!”

Cersei looked at him strangely. “Have you gone mad?”

“No.” Tyrion replied, “But it seems you have. Throw me in a Black Cell? Do you think father
would just stand by and let you throw me in a cell? He’s already upset with you enough as it is.”

Cersei paled. “He is?”

Tyrion snorted. “Why wouldn’t he be? From memory his exact words were ‘Cersei has run King’s
Landing into the ground.’ What was I to make of that?”

Cersei scowled. “It hasn’t been my fault. The Small Council is all but non-existent. All I have to
help me run this kingdom is the eunuch and I grow sick of his voice. I want to tear his tongue out.”

“Best you don’t do that.” He replied casually. “That cockless wonder spins many stories that are
crucial to the war effort.”

Cersei scoffed into her goblet. “What would you know of war?”

“Less than Jaime and more than you.”

Tyrion noted Cersei’s gaze tremble at the mention of their brother’s name. Cersei had always
thought herself subtle, but Tyrion knew how to read her like a book.

“You want Jaime back.” Tyrion stated softly. “So do I.”

Cersei lifted her gaze to his.

“You want to see Joffrey remain on his throne.” Tyrion continued. “So do I.”

Tyrion took a sip of wine before continuing.

“You want to make father proud.” He stated. “So do I.”

Tyrion got to his feet and grasped his sister by the hand.

“You want to live.” He whispered. “So do I. Our goals are aligned Cersei. I’m only here to help,
nothing more.”

Tyrion put on a madman’s grin. “You can call me am monster, but I am your monster. You call me
cunning and I am. I will do everything within my power to see House Lannister survive this war
and Joffrey and you as well.”

After a long moment of silence, finally Cersei deigned to respond. “It may be worth the trying, but
make no mistake, Tyrion. You shall be the King’s Hand in name, but my Hand in truth. You will
share all your plans and intentions with me before you act, and you will do nothing without my
consent. Do you understand?”

“Oh, yes.”
“Do you agree?”

“Certainly.” He lied. “I am yours, sister.”

For as long as I need to be.

“So now that we are of one purpose, we ought to have no more secrets between us. How did you
kill Robert?”

“He did that himself. All we did was help. When Lancel saw that Robert was going after boar, he
gave him strongwine. His favourite sour red, but fortified, three times as potent as he was used to.
The great stinking fool loved it. He could have stopped swilling it down any time he cared to, but
no, he drained one skin and told Lancel to fetch another. The boar did the rest. You should have
been at the feast, Tyrion. There has never been a boar so delicious. They cooked it with
mushrooms and apples, and it tasted like triumph.”

“Truly, sister you were born to be a widow. Now if we are done, I will be off.”

“Where are you going?” Cersei asked, “I haven’t given you leave to depart.”

“Father tasked me with bringing either the North or Dorne into the fold with us, and I hear that two
northmen are fresh in the city.”

And with that, Tyrion left. Outside Cersei’s room Tyrion nodded to Ser Mandon and made his way
down the long vaulted hall. Bronn fell in beside him. Of Chiggen there was no sign. “Where’s our
friend?”

Bronn shrugged. “Not sure. He got bored of waiting around. He felt an urge to explore.”

“I hope he doesn’t steal anything important.” Tyrion sighed. “Try to find him. And while you are
at it, send someone to find these two northmen that Lord Stark sent. Have them brought to me in
the Tower of the Hand.”

Bronn nodded and strode away, while Tyrion continued on to his new quarters in the Tower of the
Hand. He had barely gotten himself acquainted with his new chambers before he heard a knock on
the door and in strode Bronn with the two northmen that Lord Stark had sent as envoys.

“I found them, m’lord.” Bronn stated, “Not far from here.”

“Yes.” Tyrion stated as he observed the two with unease. “You found them.”

Domeric Bolton stepped forth and extended a hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Tyrion.” He
said in his soft voice. His pale eyes shimmered unnaturally, while his paler skin seemed to glow.
“I’m afraid we didn’t get much of chance to talk while you were at Winterfell.”

“No.” Tyrion said as he shook the hand and turned his gaze to the other. “We didn’t.”

“Lord Tyrion.” Ramsay Snow said as he smirked at him. He was clearly lowborn, his voice being
much different to his brothers and there was something frightening about the way he smiled and
the way his eyes shifted.

Tyrion hadn’t met these two before at Winterfell, but he had heard much about Lord Bolton’s
boys. Dangerous, deadly and powerful, the two half-brothers were as feared as any other in the
north. Their relationship was as queer as it was strong, and Tyrion knew few who did not shiver at
the name Bolton and shudder at the name Ramsay.
“My Lords,” Tyrion greeted, “We have much to discuss, please…take a seat. Bronn, tell someone
to fetch some wine and food.”

Bronn rushed away and Domeric and Ramsay lowered themselves into the chairs Tyrion had
drawn up for them.

“Tell me,” Tyroin stated while they waited on wine, “what is your liege lord’s stance on the war
within the south, here?”

Domeric and Ramsay glanced at each other and a full conversation seemed to be had in the span of
a few moments, before both turned to him and Domeric spoke. “He is against it, Lord Tyrion. War
is a horrible thing, as he well knows. He wants nothing to do with it. He wants no northern men or
woman to die in the south anymore.”

“So why then have three and a half thousand northmen fallen upon the Crag and sacked it, and
even as we speak raiding and raping their way through the Westerlands.”

Domeric frowned. “They have nothing to do with us. They have acted outside the authority of Lord
Stark and he has forsworn them all as oathbreakers and traitors. If any of them survive the war,
they will not be welcomed home.”

“Why then?” Tyrion asked, “Do you know why they attacked?”

“Of course I do.” Domeric replied. “Your brother killed Mark Ryswell, did he not?”

“He didn’t.” Tyrion lied. “The grievous act was done by one of Lord Arryn’s guardsmen. Jamie
saw it with his own ey-“

A dagger slammed into the table. “For every lie you tell me, I will tear one of your fingernails
out.” Ramsay stated casually as he watched Tyrion over the pommel of the knife.

“Mark Ryswell was the uncle of both Rickon Riverstark and Edric Darkstark.” Domeric continued
flatly, “And Asher Forrester loved him as an uncle of his own. Mark Ryswell was loved
throughout all the north. When they put forth the call to avenge him many came.”

Tyrion continued to stare at Ramsay in horror, who only stared back at him.

“Please excuse my brother, Lord Tyrion.” Domeric said when Tyrion continued to stare only at
Ramsay, “I apologise if his outburst surprised you, but he doesn’t like liars.”

Tyrion turned back to Domeric, but kept an eye on Ramsay. “No need to apologise.” He replied,
“But from what I’ve heard your brother doesn’t like all sorts of men.”

Domeric smiled sadly. “Aye. Ramsay can be…temperamental at the best of times, but I assure
you, all he does, he does to please our father.”

Tyrion smiled tightly. “That I can understand.” He raised his glass of wine in a toast. “To fathers,”
He said, “Overbearing and otherwise.”

“To fathers.” Domeric echoed as he lifted his own glass of wine.

Ramsay Snow took no part in the toast, but he yanked his dagger from the table and returned it to
his belt.

Tyrion poured both men another cup of wine, before settling back into his seat. “So tell me,” He
 said, “What does Lord Stark want to see?”

Domeric shrugged. “An end to the violence?” He suggested, “The disbanding of armies?”

“The quicker House Lannister prevails in this war, the quicker such things can happen.” Tyrion
suggested back.

“Would they?” Ramsay asked, as he finally entered the conversation. “I’ve met the boy you would
crown king over all of us. Those that lay claim to his crown are a lot more impressive than him.
I’m yet to hear of Stannis beating young girls in his throne room.”

Tyrion stared into the contents of his cup. “From what I hear,” Tyrion replied, “He is not the only
one in this city with a penchant for young girls.”

Ramsay burst into laughter, while Domeric’s lip curled downwards. “I don’t mind that he’s
naughty, Lord Tyrion.” He chuckled darkly, “I just loathe that he’s sloppy.”

“Regardless,” Domeric interrupted, “He is a boy playing at being king. Three kings have claimed
your nephew’s throne, what makes your nephew better than all of them?”

“What does Joffrey have?” Tyrion exclaimed. “He has the backing of House Lannister, the
mightiest and richest of all the southern houses. He holds the Iron Throne and holds King’s
Landing too. He is the true heir of Robert Baratheon, named and recognised before the sights of
gods and men?”

“Is he though?” Domeric asked softly, “Rumours have been swirling. Letters have been sent. Lords
and now Kings are claiming many things.”

“Careful, Lord Domeric.” Tyrion warned, “What you speak of is treason.”

“The same treason Mark Ryswell died for?” Ramsay asked.

Tyrion ignored the jibe and pushed on. “I want peace more than anyone.” He gestured to his small
body. “This frame is not built for war. I am built for libraries and whorehouses, pleasure boats and
feasting halls. I want peace between Starks and Lannisters, and I want to see the treaty King Robert
and Lord Stark signed.”

Domeric started at this, and shifted in his seat. “You want to uphold the treaty?” He asked.

“Aye.” Tyrion implored. “I will uphold the treaty. Take a seat on the small council, Lord Domeric.
I will see you named as Master of Laws, and as long as I sit on the council, you too will have a seat
beside me.”

“And what do you want in return?” Domeric asked.

“The North Remembers they say.” Tyrion stated, “Remember my kindness when another king
comes for this throne. Remember that House Lannister held to the treaties that came before us.”

Domeric nodded slowly. “I will.” He said as he got to his feet, “I don’t think I will ever forget you,
Tyrion of House Lannister.”

Chapter End Notes

Please leave a comment and tell me what you think, this is the second longest chapter
so far, behind only the Second House of the Wolf. Let me know if you like it, or even
if you don't good. All feedback is useful.

Next chapter is from Viserys. Shit is about to hit the fan.

 Viserys III: Widow's Watch
Chapter Summary

Viserys returns to Westeros.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

In the distance Widow’s Watch burned. The gates of the Shivering Sea had well and truly been
smashed open by Viserys and his armies, and it was a glorious sight to see. For so long, Viserys
had been working towards such a time as this; a time when Westeros would tremble at his family’s
name once more. And here he was taking the first step.

The Dovhakin rocked gently as she surged towards the beach where less than an hour before the
majority of his fleet had landed, spilling his army onto Westerosi soil. Widow’s Watch had been
caught unprepared, just as Viserys had planned. The gates had been shut, but not barred, and it only
took two slams with their ram before they spilled open.

Viserys had watched with delight as his vanguard of six thousand had gotten into the castle, and
then fought for it. Minutes later, his main force, another ten thousand men, arrived and then the
battle was all but one. Pockets of resistance still held on parts of the walls, and in the main keep,
but they would not last much longer.

“It is done, my king.” Ser Willem Darry said from where he stood beside him. “War will be had
now, for good or for worse.”

“Aye.” Viserys replied. “War will be had. First for the Ursuper’s Cur and then for the Ursurper
himself. I will see his corpse on the end of my blade before all this is done.”

“It will be a glorious day.” Ser Willam Darry affirmed. “The day when dragons retake what is
rightfully theirs.”

The ship shuddered as it slid along the beach, before stopping. It was done. There was no going
back now. Viserys drew his sword, and jumped from the side of the ship, onto the beach below. He
dropped to his knees, and kissed the ground in front of him. The sand tasted of salt and rotting
seaweed and grit, and yet Viserys had never tasted anything so sweet as this. This was his land, and
he was glad to be back.

When he had last set foot on Westerosi soil he had been a boy of eight with a mother still and
others as well. So many friends he had lost, so many friends he had made. But now he was back,
and back with a vengeance. He got to his feet, and behind him the last remnants of his army spilled
onto the beach as the rest of his ships beached themselves. A rear guard, four thousand strong, and
now his entire army was here.

“Burn them all.” Viserys told Ser Willem as the last of his troops disembarked from the ships. “We
will not run now. It will be to victory or to death. Burn all the ships, and let the ashes scatter to the
wind. We will not run now.”
Viserys wasn’t sure why he repeated himself, all he knew was that never in his life had he been so
scared or so excited. As Ser Willem Darry barked out commands to his personal guard, Viserys
turned his attention to the burning castle before him. The stench of smoke and salt hung in the air,
while the screams of the wounded and dying drifted by on the westerly wind.

As Viserys attempted the ascent up to the castle, the smells and sounds only grew stronger, and the
first signs of blood and bodies could be seen. The furthest ones from the castle were clearly his
own, but as they drew closer to the walls, the bodies became intermingled with those of the
defenders.

Fire and Blood.

He had done what he had promised his mother all those years ago and brought fire and blood to
those who had spurned them.

“Your grace!” Called Ser Jaremy Rykker, “Widow’s Watch is ours! All the defenders are dead or
captured.”

“At what cost?” Asked Ser Willem, his voice grave. He knew war, he had seen it before. “How
many of our own did we lose?”

“Sixteen.” Ser Jaremy replied with a wide grin. “Three of our own, nine sellswords and four of the
Volantenes.”

“What of the Lord and Lady of this place?” Viserys asked. “Where are they?”

“Lord Flintstark is dead, your grace.” Rykker replied, “He chose to fight rather than surrender. It
didn’t get him far. They shot him with crossbows. He didn’t even get to wet his blade. His wife
died when we put the central keep to the flame.”

“Did they have any children then? Do we have any hostages?”

“One.” Rykker replied. “A boy named Cregan of five namedays. His brothers and sisters were all
killed with their mother. We are holding him in one of the towers we didn’t burn.”

Viserys nodded slowly, considering his options. “Kill him.”

“Pardon?” Ser Jaremy asked, confusion and horror written onto the lines of his face.

“Kill the boy.” Viserys replied. “We have no need for him.”

“He’s a boy of five!” Ser Jaremy exclaimed. “You can’t mean to kill a boy of five!”

“Of course I do.” Viserys replied coolly. “Do you think the Burnt Lord would have had mercy for
me had he captured me and my mother on Dragonstone? Of course not. When all is said and done,
House Stark will be but a distant memory for Westeros. The boy is of House Flintstark is he not?”

“He is.” Ser Jaremy grudgingly replied.

“Then kill him.” Viserys stated. “Or tell me to get someone else to do it. I’m sure Corin Vardy
would prove amenable.”

Ser Jaremy nodded stiffly before striding away. Viserys turned from him and to Ser Elyas Willam,
the commander of his outriders and scouts. “Send out your outriders now to the west and north. I
have no doubt that someone has seen the smoke and is coming to lift the siege of this place. I want
to know who is and where they are coming from.”

Ser Elyas nodded, before mounting his horse and spurring it away and out the ruined gates of
Widow’s Watch.

Runners were sent and the captains and commanders of his army were gathered in one of the still
standing towers. They came when he called, Donarrio Heroti, Jamen Xan Xerox and Corin Vardy
splattered in blood and gore and sporting cuts and bruises. Qavo Nogarys had fared the best of all
his Essosi captains and you would not have known he had just fought a battle were it not for the
long scratch that graced his shining silver breastplate. Lord Orton, Ser Willem and Ser Jaremy
hadn’t been in the vanguard and thus hadn’t seen much of the fighting, though Ser Jaremy’s hands
were stained with blood regardless. Viserys gave him an approving nod as he came in, but Ser
Jaremy refused to nod back. His face was pale, and his eyes seemed to be in some distant place.

“Good Sers,” Viserys greeted them once they were all gathered, “It is done.”

“Your grace.” They responded in unison. “It is done.”

“We have landed.” Viserys warned them all. “For all of now, it is either to victory or death. The
north remembers they say. If we lose our war, they will never forget what we did here, or what we
are about to do. They will have no mercy for you. You are bound to me now, even more than you
were before.”

“We have always been bound to you, your grace.” Lord Orton told him. “From your first day, to
your last.”

It was not Lord Orton that Viserys was concerned about though. His loyalty was assured to him, as
was the loyalty of all the westerosi exiles. They would know no peace while Robert sat the throne,
only Viserys could see them delivered back to their homelands and titles.

The sellswords had nothing inhibiting them from betraying him though, nothing but for their oaths,
which was only as good as the depth of his coffers. He watched all of them warily, Donarrio Heroti
and Jamen Xan Xerox with their faces of stone and Corin Vardy too. Of all of them, he feared
Vardy and his charming grins and easy laughs. Vardy’s loyalties were fickle, and his skill with a
blade was as good as any that Viserys had seen. If any of these men were to betray him it would be
Vardy, for sure.

“You are right, your grace.” Vardy spoke as poured himself a fine vintage of wine he had looted
from the cellars. “Our cause is bound to yours. These northmen are vengeful, angry men. I know. I
have worked and lived amongst them. There will be no mercy for any of us, if you are to lose.”

He drew his sword, and placed it at Visery’s feet. “Here is my sword. It is yours from this day, to
your last. My men will march beside you in battle, while our counsel shall be yours in peace.”

“Rise, Ser Corin.” Viserys replied, “We have a war to plan. By now, Lucerys Velaryon’s ships will
be sailing into the Bite, engaging the fleets of the Stark’s. Soon, Volantis’ armies will muster and
march on King’s Landing. All of Westeros will tremble before us, but only if we can move before
they have the time to gather back to strike at us.”

“Our goal is Moat Cailin.” Ser Jaremy Rykker said as he stepped forth. “Without it, our cause is
doomed to failure. If anyone but us holds it, Westeros is not split in two, and we and our allies will
be crushed by the might of a united Westeros.”

“That cannot happen.” Ser Willem Darry put in. “Westeros’ armies are vast and well equipped. We
will have a hard enough time of subduing the north, let alone all the seven kingdoms.”

“We will though.” Viserys stated. “Mine is the blood of Aegon the Conquerer, Maegor the Cruel
and Jaeherys the Conciliator. On my shoulders rest the legacy of a three hundred year dynasty. We
will not falter now, not after all the highs and lows my house has been through. These kingdoms
were destined to be mine, my mother promised them to me on my deathbed. I will take them, with
fire and blood. Now tell me, my lords and sers, where goes our war from here?”

“We must burn it all.” Corin Vardy warned as he swept his hand over the map in front of them.
“From here, to the kingsroad, we must take what supplies we can and burn what is left behind. If
we leave anything behind, you can be assured the northmen will use it to fuel the armies they’ll use
to crush us. I say we ride straight for Moat Cailin, bypass White Harbour entirely, and take them in
the rear while their pants are still down.”

“A good plan.” Jamen Xan Xerox agreed. “Speed is of the essence now. We cannot afford to linger
long in any place.”

“White Harbour won’t just sit on our hands and watch us pass though. They’ll ride out to meet us.”
Donarrio Heroti stated.

“Good.” Qavo Nogaryos stated, speaking for the first time in a long time. When Qavo spoke,
Viserys listened. He was learned in the ways of war. “We have twenty thousand men. White
Harbour will not be able to field more than five. If they march out to greet us, we will crush them
with four times their number and then White Harbour shall be ours too. If they take the wise
course, and sit behind their walls, we march straight past and take Moat Cailin. Either way, we
win. A great Victory shall be ours. By this time in a moon’s turn, either their greatest fortress or
their greatest city will have fallen to us.”

At this Viserys stirred. “Why not do both?” He asked.

“Both?” Ser Willem asked, confused. “What for?”

“We’ll split the army up.” Viserys stated as he leant forward over the table, “Four thousand men
under the command of Qavo Nogaryos will march on White Harbour, while another four thousand
will march north for the Hornwood under the command of Ser Jaremy.”

“The Hornwood?” Corin spat, “What do we want with the Hornwood?”

“Nothing.” Viserys snarled, “But I want to draw the strength of White Harbour out from behind
their walls. Qavo will join battle with them, and then stage a retreat, falling back north. Ser Jaremy
will turn his host around, rejoin Qavo and crush the strength of White Harbour, while Ser Willem
commands another four thousand against the city. The remaining eight thousand will do as we
originally planned, duping the garrison of Moat Cailin into marching north, before doubling back
and taking the fortress. We take White Harbour and make sure we get hostages. From what I
know, Lord Manderly has two granddaughters. Their capture alive shall be key. With them in our
grasp we can knock one of the most powerful houses of Westeros out of the war against us.”

Viserys’ new plan was met with silence.

“That’s a risky plan.” Corin Vardy eventually stated. “The chances of failure are high.”

“So too was our chances of surviving the march from Volantis to the Shivering Sea. We did it
though. And we survived.” Viserys stared each of his men in the eye. “We aren’t going to win this
war by playing safe. We have to take risks if we want to win. This is a big risk, but if it pays off, all
 of Westeros will tremble to hear our names. We do this plan, or we do no plan. We do this plan, or
we die.”

One by one, his men nodded their assent. Some firmly, some with hesitation. Viserys nodded back
at them. “Speed is key if we are to win. Tell your men to get a good night’s rest. We leave at first
light in the morning.”

The captains nodded and rushed off to do as he bid. Ser Willem Darry stated behind, as did Ser
Jaremy.

“Are you sure of this plan, your grace?” Ser Willem asked, “It is not often wise to change the plans
of battle the moon before a battle.”

“Of course I’m not sure.” Viserys replied. “But what other choice do we have? I will not have any
brand me a coward. I will not lose this war, I cannot afford to. For you perhaps there may be
mercy. For me there will be none. I will only find a quick death if Lord Stark is feeling merciful
and a long one if he is not.”

“You are preparing to lose.” Ser Jaremy stated, and Viserys snarled at the knight. “I am preparing
to win.”

The door opened, and Ser Elyas Willam stepped into the room. His blade was drenched in blood,
but his face was flushed with victory. “Our outriders caught wind of three different hosts gathering
in three different places. We fell upon all of them, one by one, and crushed them all. Three hosts of
five hundred men each, all gone.”

Viserys nodded. “You have done well, Ser Elyas. I will remember your service. Now leave me, all
of you. I would have some alone time with Ser Willem.”

The other two knights left, and Ser Willem sat down in the chair next to Viserys. “Tell me the
truth, Ser Willem, what do you think of my new plan?”

Ser Willem looked thoughtful for a moment, before turning to the boy he had known from birth.
“Like all of your grand plans, Viserys, if it works, it will prove you to be one of the greatest
military minds in history. If it doesn’t work…well then we all die.”

Viserys hummed and closed his eyes.

“I do have one question though.” Ser Willem queried, “You spoke much of which troops would be
going where and who would be leading them, but throughout your entire plan, I never heard where
you would be.”

Viserys’ eyes snapped open and he stared at the point on the map where he would be going. “I will
be going to pay back some debts.” He snarled as he stabbed the map with point of his finger. Under
the red dot that represented the city, the name of the place was written in glossy black ink.

Winterfell.

Chapter End Notes

Please leave me a comment telling me what you think of this Viserys as I am uncertain
on how long or how great a threat to make him. I know what I want him to
accomplish, but I'm not sure just how well he should accomplish his goals, so please
throw me a bone and help me out.
 Robb II: The Summer Kingdom
Chapter Summary

Robb arrives in the Reach.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Around Robb, steel crashed on wood and the grunts and screams of fighting and wounded men. He
was in the middle of the crush of men, his sword in his hand and his shield strapped to his arm. At
his back, Wylis Manderly grunted and hacked at the opponent he was facing.

Through the slit of Robb’s visor, he noted a new challenger approaching. If this knight had shown
up in the training yard in the North, he would have been laughed right out of it. His armour was
silver, and decorated with sapphires and twining black vines, while on his back rested a cloak of
forget-me-nots swen to a heavy woollen cloak. Golden roses decorated the crest of his helm, yet
there was nothing amusing about the length of deadly steel that shimmered and shined in his hands.

Robb in contrast, must have looked like a pauper to those watching. He was only dressed in worn
plate armour, with a coat of black mail and a simple helm of good steel. His sword did not shimmer
and shine, and yet it was no less dangerous or deadly than the blade of his opponent.

“Fight me, Robb Snow!” The knight before him cried as he raised his sword and shield.

Robb grinned savagely behind his helm. If this one wished to make this fight personal, then so be
it. The blood began to pound through Robb’s ears and his heart beat faster and faster in his chest.
He raised his own sword and leapt into a run to meet the knight before him. His feet pounded along
the soft turf, while the wind whistled through the slits in his visor.

With a crash, he fell upon his opponent, his blade flashing downwards in a dangerous arc towards
the knight’s head. The knight managed to raise his blade to block it, but he had not the strength to
hold the force of the blow, and instead thrust the blow aside.

Robb’s blade fell to the side, while the Knight of Flowers thrust back at Robb. Robb caught the
blade in his gauntlet before slamming his shield into the other knight’s breastplate. The other
knight, stumbled back, driven away by the strength of Robb’s blow and Robb noted with a hint of
satisfaction that the other knight was winded.

Robb padded forward slowly, circling to the knight’s left. Around him, the tumult of the melee was
dying down and he noted the numbers of men on the sidelines growing. Behind him, he heard
movement, a squishing of mud between boots and instinctively ducked. The blade sailed over
where his head had been moments before, and he rammed upwards into shoulder of the knight that
had attacked him from behind.

The knight was tall and wrapped in enamelled blue plate armour. The armour was worn, covered in
chips and dents and gouges. Clearly this one had been where the fighting had been fiercest. The
knight’s cloak was little more than rags, but the edge of the blade he held was still as sharp as ever.
Behind him, he heard the other knight getting back his bearings. Robb had to end this quick. He
doubted the two of them would be kind enough to finish each other off, before the survivor turned
for him. Doubtless it would be the other way around.

The blue knight took a step to Robb’s right, putting Robb more directly in between the two other
survivors.

Robb turned his head to check where the Knight of Flowers was, and that was when the blue
knight struck. He barrelled into him from behind, driving him to the floor. They tumbled around on
the floor, exchanging punches, kicks and gouging at each other’s armour, trying to find a weak
spot.

Robb managed to get one foot under the blue knight’s stomach and he kicked out with all his
might. The blue knight sprawled backwards, into the mud, while Robb scrambled to find his
sword. He found the hilt of one, in the mud, but it wasn’t his own. He picked it up all the same,
and spun just in time to catch the blade of the Knight of the Flowers who had chosen this moment
to re-enter the fray.

With a growl of anger, Robb lashed out with the blade. He swung powerful, sweeping arcs that
drove the Knight of the Flowers back across the yard. The Knight tripped on something and fell
backwards and Robb didn’t hesitate to end it there. His sword flashed down, but he was stopped
when a blade crashed into the side of his helm. He stumbled to the side, his head ringing.

Grunting and shaking his head to clear it, Robb found himself beginning to get frustrated. He felt
something bubbling within his chest, and he ripped off his helm and pitched it at the blue knight,
before tackling the Knight of Flowers to the ground.

He wrenched off the helm of the knight beneath him and began pounding his fists into the other
knight’s face.

“Loras!” Came a cry from the gallery, “Loras!” The voice was soft, and effeminate.

The voice seemed to stir something within the knight beneath him and Loras Tyrell flashed out
with his own fist and caught Robb on the jaw. Robb punched Loras one final time, harder than he
ever had before, and this time the Knight of the Flowers didn’t punch back. Robb grunted and
rolled off him, before getting back to his feet.

The blue knight was watching him warily, pacing on the edges of his vision, his sword still
clutched in his hands. Robb smiled, blood dribbling from where he had bitten his tongue when
Loras Tyrell had punched him back.

“Well done.” He told the blue knight, “You’ve outlasted them all, but you won’t outlast me.”

The blue knight didn’t deign to respond, only continued to pace on the edges of his vision. Robb
shrugged and retreated from the blue knight. The blue knight followed up, determined to push the
advantage, but Robb had found what he was looking for. Crouching into the yard, he picked up a
discarded long handled hammer. He wasn’t used to this weapon, but he had seen Gendry wield one
enough that he felt he knew the basics. Hammers weren’t like swords after all, you needed no skill,
just an ungodly strength.

Robb reached deep inside of himself and drew on all his rage and anger, and the reserves of energy
he felt that were depleted. With a roar he launched himself back at the blue knight, determined to
end the fight in one powerful swing.

The head of the hammer came around upon the knight’s left side, and he tried to dodge it. The
hammer struck true though and the blue knight tumbled to the floor, dazed and clutching his arm.
He groaned and rolled onto his back. “I yield.” Robb heard, and he nodded in satisfaction before
dropping the hammer and turning to the king and queen who watched it all.

King Renly Baratheon looked absolutely delighted, a wide smile playing across his features while
he clapped in congratulations. Next to him, his queen looked greatly displeased. She very pretty,
with a doe’s soft eyes and a mane of curling brown hair that fell about her shoulders in last ringlets.
Her smile was shy and sweet, though her dainty lips and delicate brow were curled into a frown at
this moment.

Robb bared his bloody grin at the pair of them, before spitting a wad of blood and saliva out of his
mouth and onto the ground next to him. He fell to one knee before them both.

“You were all Lord Tarly promised you to be and more!” Renly cried at Robb. Lord Randyll Tarly
nodded at that, his mouth set in a grim line, and Robb nodded at the Lord of Horn Hill in
appreciation. “Rare is the man who can fend of Ser Loras, and rarer the man that can fend of both
Ser Loras and Brienne of Tarth.”

At the last knight’s name, the crowd erupted in jeers and cheers. A Beauty! A Beauty! They cried
and Robb frowned.

“Pardon, your grace?” He asked as he turned to the blue knight who was limping away, “Did you
say…Brienne?”

The blue knight turned at the mention of his name. The poor man looked defeated, cradling his
injured arm and stooped over in shame and defeat.

“Good ser!” Robb cried as he approached the blue knight. “Remove your helm so I may see the
face of the man who fought so well. It has been a long time since I have been challenged in the
way you challenged me.”

The knight shook his head, and went to turn away, but Robb caught the knight by his good arm and
pulled him back towards the king. “Come!” Robb cried, loud enough for all to hear. “The king
must meet such a fine fighter as yourself. Remove your helm, good ser, so all here may know your
name!”

The knight reached up and pulled his helm from his head, except it wasn’t a he beneath the helm,
but rather a she.

“My…lady?” Robb asked with a confused glance at the king. The lady only knelt before her king
in response, her head bowed in deference. When Robb saw her face he understood why men called
her a beauty. It wasn’t said with love, it was spoken with mocking. She had shoulder length hair,
blonde and brittle, while her features were broad and coarse and covered in freckles. Her teeth
were prominent and crooked, and Robb pitied her more than any other in this camp of corpses.

“You are a fine fighter, Lady Brienne.” Robb told her, “Few I have faced have given me the
challenge you have. You remind me a bit of a good friend of mine, Lady Dacey Mormont. Like
you, she fights alongside men, and does it well too.”

Brienne nodded her head slightly, though she still looked sad.

“Not as well as you do though, Lord Robb!” Renly cried from his throne, “The last of one hundred
and nineteen mounted riders! Name any boon of me, and if it is within my power I shall grant it to
you!”
Robb turned back to the king, as the poor girl went to slink away. “With all due respect, your grace,
I have been ordered to not partake in any activities that may tie me to the cause of one king, and
thus I cannot accept such a boon. In my place, I beg you grant the boon to the lady Brienne of
Tarth. She fights as well as any other I have faced, and you would find few who could have
defeated her on this field here today.”

Renly laughed as Brienne turned around in shock. “Well said, Lord Robb, well said. You are a
shining light of chivalry, and all men could take lessons from you. You are right I believe. If you
forfeit your prize as victor, then it falls to Brienne of Tarth to claim the prize as the winner of
second place.”

“Only because she hung in the back while the true men fought!” Someone cried behind him, and
Robb whirled round. “Who said that?”

No one responded. “Who said it!?” Robb roared. “Come down here, and face her yourself you
craven dog! I fought against both Ser Loras and Lady Brienne. She may not be the better
swordsman, but she is the better warrior!”

Whomever had called it, refused to respond and Robb turned back to Brienne and the King. “The
boon is hers, your grace.”

Renly nodded before turning to Brienne himself. “As the champion of the great melee at
Bitterbridge, you may ask me of any boon that you desire. If it lies in my power, it is yours.”

“Your grace,” Brienne answered, “I ask the honour of a place among your Rainbow Guard. I would
be one of your seven, and pledge my life to yours, to go where you go, ride at your side, and keep
you safe from all hurt and harm.”

“Done.” He said, “Rise, rise as Brienne the Blue, a knight of my seven.”

When Renly cut away her torn cloak and fastened a rainbow in it’s place, Brienne of Tarth looked
as though the world had been served to her on a platter. Her smile was proud, and her voice was
strong as she said, “My life for yours, your grace. From this day on, I am your shield, I swear it by
the old gods and the new.”

Around them, the press of observers and men melted away, while Robb sought out Wylis
Manderly and his own men.

His father had given him two hundred Winter Wolves too serve as an escort while he was in the
south. They were captained by Wylis Manderly, who had proven himself a fine fighter, and a finer
eater. Renly had placed him and his men in a place of privilege close to Renly’s own pavilion. As
his father had told him, Renly was doing much to curry favour with Robb, and in turn no doubt he
hoped to curry favour with his father.

“Lord Robb!” Wylis Manderly cried, and he emerged from the press of men, his wide frame and
broad belly serving as a ram to push him through. “Come, come, the men caught a stag for us! We
shall eat well tonight!”

Robb smiled at the captain of his men, before following him across the camp. Around him the men
of the Reach congratulated him on his win and patted his back. Some japed with him, some
laughed with him, but all of them scraped before him.

They feared him, he knew it.

It was Lord Tarly’s fault, well Lord Tarly’s and his father’s. Lord Tarly had told not a soul of what
had happened at the battle of God’s Eye and neither had his father. When facts lacked, men spread
falsehoods and what great falsehoods had been spread.

Robb had heard a hundred different tellings of the tale, from an overwhelming crush of northmen
to an army of wargs and skinchangers to an army of children of the forest and giants. Stories
abounded freely, and those stories made men fear to make an enemy of him.

They arrived within the confines of their own tents and found that true to Wylis’s word, a stag was
being turned over a spit, fine slices of venison already collected on a plate that had been set next to
the cookfire.

Wylis Manderly chortled with delight when he saw them and hurried to take a seat by the fire. A
squire brought him a flagon of wine, while another brought him the choice serving of the stag.

Robb turned away and returned to his tent, pulling off his dented and bloody armour and removing
his chainmail and leathers. His tattered cloak fell to the floor, and Robb wiped down his torso with
a wet cloth, inspecting himself for new wounds. Aside from a few bruises and a smattering of
scratches, Robb wasn’t in too bad a state.

He placed on his surcoat, before exiting the tent. It had been late afternoon when the tourney had
finished, and now it was early evening. The stars were just beginning to peek through in the sky
and the horizon was painted in a myriad of pinks, oranges and reds.

“Come join us!” Wylis boomed when he emerged, “This venison is among the finest I have
tasted!”

Robb smiled gratefully at the heir to White Harbour, before shaking his head and turning away. “I
need to clear my head. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

Wylis shrugged and returned to his venison and wine, while Robb strode off to find some peace
and quiet. His walk took him through the sprawling camp, until he was atop a hill overlooking it
all. It gave him a fine view of the lands around, as well as the lone figure following him up the
path.

Robb tensed and loosened the dagger in its scabbard at his waist, while the figure made their way
up towards him. They were wrapped in a black cloak with a cowl that covered their form and hid
their face in shadows.

It was only when the figure was almost next to him that he recognised who it was. “Queen
Margaery” He greeted, with a dip of his head.

She tilted her head up to look at him, and Robb smiled at her warmly. She smiled back shyly, her
dark hair framing her pretty face. “Lord Robb.” She greeted back with a coy smile.

“Where is your lord husband?” Robb asked as he looked around, “Does he often let his queen run
around without an escort?”

Margaery laughed softly. “No he doesn’t.” She shrugged then, “But I doubt Renly will be missing
me.”

“At this hour?” Robb replied, “I don’t know many men who wouldn’t be missing their lady wives
at this time of evening.”

Margaery shrugged and looked over her shoulder. “Renly is at war. There will be time enough for
that in peace.”
“If Renly makes it to the peace that is.”

“You don’t think he will.” She said it as a statement, not a question.

Robb smiled grimly. “No. He won’t.”

“What makes you so certain?” Margaery asked, “Renly is a true king, in name and countenance.”

Robb laughed at that. “And yet kings are coming to be as common as lords now. Renly is but one
of five kings, and easily the least of them.”

“The least?” Margaery cried, anger clouding her soft features.

“The least.” Robb growled back. “Ronnel Arryn is waging a war and winning, while even Balon
Greyjoy is beginning to stir on his isles. What he plans to do is anybody’s guess, but it won’t be
good for anyone that doesn’t have salt and iron flowing through their veins. Joffrey, boy and
coward he may be, but he holds the legal claim and the Iron Throne, something which your
husband doesn’t have at all.” Robb shivered. “And Stannis? Stannis is the greatest and most
dangerous of them all. With Torrhen Snow by his side, all of Westeros should be trembling. And
what has Renly done?” Robb asked with a sneer. “He’s sat here playing at war, hosting tourneys
and wasting enough resources to fuel my father’s armies for a year.”

“Stannis has a pirate prince.” Margaery scoffed, “Pirates are good for raiding, but not for war.”

“Torrhen is no pirate.” Robb replied. “Torrhen is a dangerous man, with more power than any man
has the right to wield. As long as Stannis has him by his side, Stannis has the advantage in this
war.”

“Torrhen has ships, I will give him that, but so do we.” Margaery boasted. “We have all the
strength of the Shield Islands and the Arbour and the Mander behind us, close to three hundred
ships!”

Robb roared with laughter at that statement. “Do you know who Torrhen’s father is?”

Margaery shook her head. “Not off the top of my head. Pirates don’t interest me, bastard pirates
interest me even less.”

“Beron Saltstark.” Robb told her. “And Beron claims that Torrhen is ten times the admiral that he
ever was. Do you know what Beron is famed for?”

“Sinking the Redwyne fleet.” Margaery replied in a small voice. “During the siege of Storm’s
End.”

“Aye.” Robb glanced off to the river, where he could see the outlines of a few river barges resting
on its banks. “He was outnumbered two to one. Odds could be worse, but they were still pretty
formidable. And he won.”

“He won with the help of sorcery.” Margaery scoffed. “My father spoke of that night often. He
spoke of a monster that came out of the water and swallowed the ships whole!”

Robb chuckled gently. “I see your father has a penchant for tales too. I’ve met your monster. In the
north we call him Willy. He’s quite a friendly chap.”

“Friendly? Are you jesting with me?” Margaery looked at him askew. “Torrhen Snow doesn’t have
one of those does he?”
“I don’t know.” Robb replied, “But I’ve always assumed they don’t call him the Black Leviathan
for nothing.”

Margaery narrowed her eyes at him. “Now I know your jesting with me. Leviathan’s don’t exist.”

Robb only shrugged in reply. “Maybe they don’t, perhaps they do. It’s a big world out there, and
I’ve only seen one very small corner. Perhaps somewhere out there, there is leviathans and dragons
and half a hundred other mythical beasts. Who knows? Perhaps to them, humans are mere myths?”

Margaery giggled softly. “What a strange notion.” She told him.

“Almost as strange as you being married to a sword swallower.”

Robb’s statement cut through the air like a sword, and Margaery stared at him with wide eyes.
Robb reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair away. “I know a thousand men that would die
to hold a woman like you in their arms.”

“Don’t.” Margaery snapped sharply as she slapped his hand away. “I don’t care to hear your lies,
regardless of what truths you think you know.”

At this Robb laughed. “Then you’re wiser than all the other women I have lain with.”

“And has it been many?” She challenged him.

“Enough.” Robb shrugged. “Most of them are falling over themselves as soon as I say that very
line.”

“And most women are fools, little more than pawns in a game.” Margaery huffed. “I don’t want to
be a pawn though. I want to be more than that.”

“You want to be a queen.”

“No.” Margaery told him. “I want to be the queen.”

At this Robb smiled sadly. “Well best of luck to you then. With a husband like yours though, I
doubt you will be one long.”

“You think this kingdom is doomed?” Margaery asked him, her eyes searching his.

Robb smiled strangely. It felt half a sneer, quarter of a smirk and all loathing. “We have a name for
kingdoms such as your Lord Husband’s, Lady Margaery.”

“What do you mean?” Margaery asked, her soft features creased into a frown.

“In the North we call Kingdoms such as this one a summer kingdom.”

“A summer kingdom?”

“Aye.” Robb replied, his voice grave. “A summer kingdom, held together by a summer crown and
protected by the knights of summer.” He gestured around him at the sprawling camp. On the
evening breeze smatters of conversation and laughter drifted to the place where they both stood,
overwatching it all. “They laugh and jest now, and they speak of the glories to come. They speak
of the battles they will fight in, the men they will kill and the wars they will win. When the cold
winds rise though, when the hard times come, these knights will fall and die like flies.”

“My husband’s host numbers one hundred thousand men. They will not fall or die easily.”
Margaery boasted.

“They will.” Robb assured her, “They are treating this war as a tourney, where much honour and
glory and riches are to be won. They don’t understand. War is no tourney. There’s no riches to be
won, only lost.”

“What would you know of war?” Margaery scorned him, “You’re a boy of sixteen, scarce older
than me. You’ve seen no wars, known no battles and killed no men. Who are you to lecture men
such as these on war and battle?”

“No.” Robb replied softly, his voice sad. “I haven’t seen a true war. I know men who have
though.” He shuddered involuntary. “Their stories didn’t leave me wanting to fight in war, only
hoping I would never see one.”

Robb turned to Margaery and looked at her by the light of the moon. He smiled sadly at her. “And
yet, here I am. Seeing a war I never hoped too.”

Margaery’s frown softened under Robb’s sad gaze, and she turned to observe the sprawling mass of
men before her. “No one wants to see war.” She told him, “Lest of all me or my family. The Reach
has always been famed for chivalry, not killing. But as you said, it is here, and we must deal with it
nonetheless.”

“War can always be avoided.” Robb replied. “All it requires is men to sit down and talk.”

“Then tell your father to come and talk.” Margaery challenged him. “Tell him to come and talk to
Renly, and how together they will forge a greater kingdom than any other kingdom that has come
before, or shall come after. With your father’s armies and my husband’s own, none will be able to
stand against us.”

Robb looked Margaery in her eyes, his eyes hard. “Rhaegar made the same offer to my grandfather,
I am told. Rhaegar spoke to my grandfather of a dynasty that would last a thousand years, of how
their names would be written into the history books, of how Westeros would become the centre of
the world, its name known as far as the lands beyond the Jade Sea.”

Robb paused and sat down on the grass, and Margaery followed suit. “And what did your
grandfather tell Rhaegar in reply?”

Robb smiled wryly. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I guess.” Margaery replied with a small smile of her own, “But surely he must have spoken more
words than just a no. He must have had words other than just a simple no to share with Rhaegar?”

“He never liked to speak of the war.” Robb shifted and lay down upon the soft grass. “I only ever
heard him speak of Rhaegar to me and my brother once. He told us what Rhaegar’s last words
were.”

“And what were where they?” Margaery queried, her doe’s eyes holding his captive. “Were they a
last declaration of his love for a woman? A regret perhaps? A word of wisdom?”

“Nothing of the sort.” Robb replied. “All he ever said, was only a dragon can kill a dragon.” Robb
frowned. “That was all he had to say from the Trident to King’s Landing, even as my grandfather
plunged his black blade into his heart, allegedly.”

Margaery frowned. “Only a dragon can kill a dragon? What does that mean?”
Robb shrugged. “I don’t know. Neither did my grandfather. Were they words of knowledge or the
mumblings of a madman? Who knows? Rhaegar is dead, and so too his legacy. Let it all rest. The
Targaryen’s are gone. They are gone, and I would prefer to leave it that way.”

“Fair enough.” Margaery replied with a shy smile, before she collapsed down onto the grass next to
him. “Let us speak of something happier. Tell me of what you wanted to be before the war came.”

“Before the war came?” Robb asked, “I wanted to be the Lord of Winterfell. I wanted to be a King.
I wanted to be the greatest Northman to have ever lived. They were the dreams of a child though,
and we are living in the realms of men now.”

Margaery looked at him askew. “By the gods you are grim.”

Robb burst into peals of laughter at the young queen’s statement. “Grim? My friends find me to be
very light hearted I will have you know! My own brother considers me to be little more than a
japing fool!”

Margaery laughed back at him, before getting back to her feet. “I must be gone before I am
missed.” She told him. “I wanted to make my own measure of the envoy of the Lord of
Winterfell.”

Robb waggled his eyebrows at her. “And have you?” He asked.

She smiled at him but didn’t deign to respond, before shrugging her dark cloak back on, and
turning away. Just for a second, as she turned, the starlight reflected back at him in her doe’s eyes,
while her soft lips were curled into a knowing smirk and Robb’s breath hitched in his throat.

She was different this girl.

“I warned you.” Robb told her, days later as the lords and soldiers packed their tents.

She looked at him, and for the first time he saw uncertainty in her doe’s eyes. “They’re yet to fall.”
She told him. “Look at them.” She said as she pointed at her brother and the king, side by side.
“There rides the chivalry of the Reach and the strength of the Stormlands.”

“There rides two corpses.” Robb replied, “Even if they do not know it yet. With Rodrick Greyjoy
on the Shield Islands sits the raiders and reaver’s of the Iron Islands. Tried and tested warriors,
each and every one. Many of them are the veterans of a hundred battles in Essos, most of them with
the Company of the Rose.”

“My brother fears no Ironborn, tried and tested, greybeard or even ones as green as grass.” She
challenged, iron in her tones. “As you said they are raiders and reavers, not warriors and knights.”

“Winter is coming, Margaery. And with winter, this summer kingdom shall come to an end.”

She threw him a reproachful look. “Why do you only spew prophecies of our doom? Is there
nothing you see here that makes you think that we will survive the trials to come?”

“There is plenty.” Robb replied, “It is not your strength I doubt, but rather the weakness of your
foes.”

She threw him a last look of anger, before turning and striding away.

“Lord Robb!” He heard, and he turned to see Renly striding towards him, dressed in green and gold
 armour. “Will you ride with us for the Shield Islands? Will you defend this realm from the enemies
that besiege it?”

Robb shook his head, with a look of deep regret on his face. “Unfortunately not, your grace.”

“Balon Greyjoy and my uncle Brandon were said to be the closest of friends. I have no wish to
draw ire from the living or dead by besmirching my blade with the blood of the Ironborn.”

Renly smiled sadly, before nodding and extending a hand. “This is farewell then. I shall see when I
return to march my infantry on King’s Landing.”

“You will, your grace.” Robb replied. “Until then, good fortune in the wars to come.”

Chapter End Notes

Leave me a comment and let me know what you think.

To the dickheads who took all the toilet paper...fuck you. I've been to eight stores
today looking for toilet paper and I can't find it anywhere...
 Tommen I: The Ways of War
Chapter Summary

Tommen goes to war.

Chapter Notes

Sorry if this chapter is a little confusing, but I've tried to keep it within Tommen's
POV, who at this point in time is very young.

And sorry for the delay. But here it is.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When Tommen had first met Alaric he had thought he was cruel and bitter and not a little unlike
Joffrey. Alaric’s eyes were often squinted in anger and his lips seemed to be curled in a permanent
scowl.

It wasn’t until Artos Stark, Alaric’s older brother, had introduced the two of them properly that
Tommen had discovered that perhaps there was more to Alaric Stark than met the eye. Tommen
found that behind the bitter sneers and angry snarls was someone who cared deeply for his family,
and had a love for wolves that rivalled Tommen’s love for kittens.

Their slowly blossoming friendship had been cemented when Alaric had gifted Tommen with a
shadow cat cub. Tommen had named it Ser Pounce and it was the only shadowcat that any of the
wolves that prowled throughout Winterfell seemed to be kind to. The howls of wolves and screams
of the shadowcats often echoed around the city as they fought with one another.

Alaric had told Tommen that the wargs who controlled such animals had to be kept in separate
barracks because often they would start fighting too. Alaric had told him that often the nature of a
wargs companion could bleed into the warg, just as the wargs nature could bleed into his
companion.

Tommen had stopped letting Ser Pounce sleep on his bed after that, though it was most probably
for the best. Ser Pounce had very sharp claws that tore up all the cushions. The maid didn’t like it
when Ser Pounce tore up the cushions.

“Tommen!” Ser Oswell cried as he rapped him across the head with his wooden training sword.
“Focus.”

In the corner Ser Pounce took personal offence and came bounding over, his chubby little belly
wiggling funnily. It leapt up and managed to snag the end of Ser Oswell’s coat, before growling
and hissing and trying to pull Ser Oswell to the ground.

Ser Oswell clicked his tongue in annoyance, before gripping the little shadowcat cub by the scruff
of his neck and lifting him off the floor. Ser Pounce growled and tried to bat at Ser Oswell with his
paws, but he couldn’t reach.

Tommen couldn’t help but giggle, only adding to Ser Oswell’s annoyance. “Stupid cat.” He
muttered as he flung it away into a nearby hay bale. “Stupid northerners. Stupid oversized pets.”
He grumbled.

“Focus Tommen,” He barked, before turning to find Alaric, but Alaric had already gone. In the
corner, his direwolf pup, Walton was being chased by the cook. It most probably had something to
do with the oversized haunch of meat that it had clutched in its mouth.

Ser Oswell sighed in exasperation. “Why did I ever agree to this? Why don’t I get to guard the
intelligent, coherent older brother? Why am I stuck with the eight year olds?”

He sighed and turned away. “It was the same when I was in the kingsguard.” He continued as he
walked away. “I always got the shit jobs. Ser Oswell…go and find some food. Ser Oswell…go and
set up camp. Ser Oswell…go guard the King as he enters the whorehouse. And make sure you
don’t get distracted too…”

Ser Oswell’s voice drifted away as he left and with a start, he noticed that Ser Oswell had given up
on them. He turned around looking for Alaric, but he couldn’t see him anywhere. He couldn’t have
gone far could have he?

“Alaric?” He called tentatively. “Alaric, where are you?”

“Up here.” He heard Alaric cry, and he looked up to see him crouched on the roof of the armoury,
his white raven perched on his shoulder.

“What are you doing up there?” Tommen asked.

“Bad news has come.” Alaric replied as he watched the Maester’s Tower. “Look.” He pointed and
Tommen turned to see a flurry of black ravens flying forth from the tower.

“Do you reckon my mother and father are alright?” Tommen asked. “Myrcella will be fine won’t
she?”

Alaric looked down at him, but didn’t respond. After a moment, he rose to his feet. “What
happened to Ser Oswell?”

“He left.”

Alaric grunted and swung over the side of the roof, before scaling the wall and jumping to the
ground. “Come,” He said as he strode past him, “Let’s go to the godswood.”

Tommen trotted after him, and Ser Pounce pursued them both. They walked in silence. Something
was wrong. Alaric had guessed it from the Master’s Tower and now they saw he was right. They
passed by the guard barracks where men where shouting and saddling horses. In the blacksmith
Mikken and all his apprentices were hard at work, fitting men and sharpening swords.

“What’s going on?” Tommen asked Alaric.

“Something is wrong.” Alaric repeated stubbornly. Then he paused and his face filled with
concern. “Maybe Jon has been hurt.”

They came to the gates of the godswood and Alaric gestured for Tommen to be quiet. Together,
the two of them came to the great weirwood where they found figures huddled around the tree,
arguing.

Lord Stark was there, as was the Lady Ashara. So too was Artos and a small man that Tommen did
not recognise. Tommen went to greet them but Alaric grasped him by the arm and pulled him into
the shadows.

“How could have this happened?” Lord Stark was saying, “You told me he was dead!”

The small man scowled. “That is what I was told too.”

“You are meant to make sure that the reports you receive are true, and clearly the one you gave me
was not!”

“I’m sure Bowen didn’t deliberately make the mistake.” Lady Ashara interrupted.

“Of course not!” Artos cried, “No one is disputing whether or not his incompetence wasn’t
deliberate, but the North is still burning because of it! He failed at his task!”

The small man sneered at the young lordling, before a snake head slithered out of his cape and
draped itself around his neck. It hissed at Artos and spat venom. “I won’t take insults from a boy
so green he pisses grass!”

“Enough.” Lord Stark snapped. “It has happened. Fighting amongst ourselves does no one good.”

“We need Jon back, father.” Artos said as he turned to Lord Stark. “The Wall and the Night’s
Watch can hold the Wildings. We need him back to fight the Targaryens.”

Next to him, Alaric stiffened. Tommen looked at him, confused. The Targaryen’s were meant to be
dead and gone. Father had told him so. So too had mother.

“Viserys Targaryen is the greater threat.” The small man agreed. “He must be dealt with as soon as
possible.”

Lady Ashara rubbed her temples. “How did this happen? Where are all the skinchangers under your
command?”

“In the South, my lady.” Bowen replied. “That or watching Lucerys Velaryon wing his way into
the Bite.”

“And Kyle Waterman?” She asked. “Where is he?”

“In the Bay of Krakens.” Lord Stark told her, his voice grave. “Along with half of our eastern
fleet.”

Artos groaned and put his head in his hands. “This is horrible. Do we know where Viserys is
now?”

“He should be within a day or two from Ramsgate.”

“Do they know he is coming?” Lord Stark asked.

“I don’t know.” Bowen replied. “Rider’s, ravens and wargs have been sent but I have no way of
knowing if any of them have arrived.”

Lord Stark sighed and turned to look at the great weirwood that stretched into the sky behind them.
At the bottom of the tree the skull grinned up at him, as if it was laughing at Lord Stark’s sadness.
“This is a tragedy.” He said. “Not since before the conquest have enemies set foot on Northern
soil. We must rebuff him, and fast. We need to set a perimeter now, and stop him and his men from
breaching it.”

“How much land shall we be prepared to lose though?” Artos asked.

“It is not the land I am worried about.” Lord Stark replied. “Land can be reclaimed, it is the
people. Most of our population lives on the prime farmland that is in the region that Viserys
Targaryen has just attacked. It will take perhaps a year or two to reclaim the land from destruction.
It will take decades to replace those people.”

“We must evacuate them all, before Viserys turns inland and wreaks havoc upon them.”

“Yes.” Artos exclaimed. “We need to move them all. We’ll tell them to pack up and leave. Head
for the big cities and holdfasts. White Harbour, the Hornwood, Oldcastle, Hell Hold and Bloody
Hall.”

“What they can’t take, they will need to burn.” Bowen warned. “Anything they leave behind,
Viserys will use.”

“The cost though…” Lady Ashara muttered. “It will be astronomical…and winter is coming.”

Lord Stark looked up. “Order Lord Bolton to march down and reinforce the Hornwood. Tell him to
stop Viserys from marching further North at all costs. Order Galbart Glover to march and reinforce
Torrhen’s Square. The Wintercity and Barrowton must muster all our forces. We will be the
perimeter. Viserys cannot be allowed to break further into the North.”

“And those in between? What of White Harbour?”

“As Artos said, they need be evacuated.” Lord Stark said. “Send the Winter Wolves out. They are
to make sure that all the villages and towns are fully abandoned. No one gets left behind. They will
need to take them to all the major holdfasts and cities.”

“That will put a large strain on supplies.” Lady Ashara warned. “We may not be able to feed them
all.”

“We will.” Lord Stark replied. “Open the Winter Granaries. Use them.”

Lady Ashara looked absolutely aghast. “But they are for...”

“I know.” Lord Stark groaned. “But what choice do we have? Hopefully we can expel Viserys
quickly enough to put in another harvest before winter comes.”

“We must call Jon home.” Artos said. “We need him, and the Greatjon too.”

Lord Stark turned to Bowen, who shrugged. “He is at the Fist of the First Men now. It will take a
moon’s turn to see him back at the wall, and then another moon’s turn to have him back here, and
then another moon’s turn to see him with an army marching against Viserys.”

“We do not have time for that.” Lord Stark. “I shall lead the armies, as is my duty. We will have to
do without them. We shall call for the rest of the Weirwood Warrior’s though. They shall attend us,
and serve against Viserys for us. They broke his brother’s armies, they can break his too.”

“Done.” Bowen said as he turned to leave. “I shall order word sent at once.”
Bowen rushed away and Lord Stark turned to Artos. “Go and gather your arms and armour. You
will be riding with me against them when the time comes.”

Artos grinned like a fool and leapt into the air. Lady Ashara made a small sound of protest but it
died in her throat when Alaric stepped out of the bushes they had been hiding in. “Alaric!” She
cried, “What are you doing here? And is that you too Tommen?”

Tommen crept out from the bushes too and smiled up at her sheepishly. She marched over and
slapped Alaric across the back of the hand. “You shouldn’t be eavesdropping. Or you, Tommen.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Lord Stark said. “It is better if Tommen knows what he rides to war for.”

As one, all of them turned to stare at Lord Stark incredulously. “You can’t mean to take Tommen
to war can you?”

“I do.” Lord Stark replied, his voice quiet. “Tommen is a prince of the realm and my squire. He
must learn of war sooner or later. I would have him learn of it now, so unlike my sons he learns the
truth of it and see’s no glory in it.”

And that was that. Tommen was going to war. The Lady Ashara yelled and hissed at Lord Stark
but he wouldn’t be moved. Alaric begged to come as well, but Lord Stark bent to Lady Ashara on
that and he wasn’t going.

This only served to upset Alaric even more, and he had spent two whole days on the roof of the
broken tower because of it. No one could get him down, and he eventually only came down
because Artos threatened to ride off to war and die without saying goodbye to him.

The next week was filled with rushing men, snorting horses and swords training from Ser Oswell
and Lord Stark when they could spare time from him. Most of his time though was spent with
Alaric and Artos though, speaking about what was happening and how father would be arriving
with the armies of the south at any moment. Artos said that Mrycella would come to keep him
company and that Joffrey would be left in King’s Landing. Mother would come too, he said and
Uncle Jaime would kill Viserys just like he killed The Mad King.

Alaric said very little, preferring to spend his days climbing the walls and toying with the Valyrian
steel dagger that he said he stole from father.

Ravens were arriving with news almost on the hour, and little of it seemed to be good. Viserys had
taken Ramsgate and sacked all the lands south of the Hornwood. One minute he was marching
with his full strength on White Harbour, and then he was marching with half his strength against
the Hornwood and then he changed his mind and decide to march against White Harbour again.

Many of the reports Lord Stark received contradicted each other, and the most ludicrous that
Tommen had heard was that Viserys was striking for Moat Cailin. Tommen was just a boy, but he
had never seen a formidable castle than Moat Cailin.

The week came to an end however and one morning Tommen woke up and saw an entire army
assembled on the plains outside of the Wintercity. Then Lord Stark came to see him, and he was
being made a set of little armour and a little sword and he was given a horse too, a real horse, not a
pony.

“You keep care of my father and brother for me.” Alaric told him when he was being fitted with
his new made armour. “I can’t lose them. Especially Artos. Look after him. Don’t let him die.”
Alaric had been on the brink of tears, and his voice shook.
 Tommen had nodded seriously. “I promise.” He said solemnly. “I won’t let them die. I’ll die first.”

“No.” Alaric had cried. “Don’t let any of you die. All of you come back. I don’t want to be left
alone here again.”

“You won’t be left alone.” Tommen had said, “You’ll have Arya and Dyanna.”

But he was wrong about that too. The next morning Arya and Dyanna were gone as well, along
with a man called Ethan Glover. Tommen had never been scared of Lord Stark before, but he was
with him when they got the news, and Lord Stark had almost decapitated the poor man who
brought the news. He had cursed Ethan Glover, his own father, and Arya and Dyanna too. He had
wept and wailed and cursed and cried before retreating to his own chambers.

The next morning dawned clear and bright. Lord Stark emerged from his chambers in iron and furs
with Ice in his hands. He had come to Tommen’s chambers, helped him dress in his armour and
then together they made their way to the courtyard where Artos awaited them along with all the
captains of the army.

They said some words, prayed a prayer and then they all marched to war.

Chapter End Notes

Leave me a review, and help me gather enough energy to write the next chapter which
will be from Jon's perspective.
 Jon VII: The Fist of the First Men
Chapter Summary

Jon arrives at the Fist of the First Men

Chapter Notes

WARNING: LONG AUTHORS NOTE

Before I begin, I would like to thank everyone who commented on the last chapter. I
was very inspired and thankful for the time and care you put into them, and the way
that all of you had a piece of constructive criticism to share with me on what you did
and didn't like about the last chapter. Thank you. It is for comment's like those that I
write, comment's that help me to grow as a writer and storyteller.

Regarding Visery's arc I do agree with you that up until now he has had a large
amount of plot armour, particularity regarding how he got to the North. However I do
disagree with the accusations of plot armour past his arrival at Widow's Watch.
Viserys arrived surprising and unexpectedly, greatly contributing to his victory there.
As explained in earlier chapters most of the North's Eastern Fleet was reassigned from
that region, some to the Bay of Krakens, other's further south to watch Lucerys
Velaryon's fleet wing it's way into the bite. As to all the North's wargs, most of them
are split into two legions. The first is primarily used for war, not for spying, while the
second is the spy unit. Pretty much all of the spy wargs are either in the south
watching the War of the Five (now Six) Kings or in Essos.

As to Visery's victories past Widow's Watch that are unfeasible, I disagree. The last
chapter was written from Tommen's chapter and he may not be the most accurate POV
in this series. He is eight at the time after all, and I am trying to keep his POV's in the
same vein as that of an eight year old. Secondly, the meeting in the godswood was the
first meeting Ned had about Viserys, yet it was not the last. As stated in the chapter by
Tommen, there was a whole week in between that meeting and Ned and Tommen
riding for war. In that time, Ned spent a lot of time revising plans and planning how to
deal with Viserys...much of which you will see in the chapters to come.

A last thing I want you to consider is that all you know of Viserys has come from
Tommen and Viserys's POV's. I have already stated that Tommen is not the most
accurate POV, but Viserys is arrogant and does tend to think highly of himself, thus
your opinions of what Viserys is. Look at what he has achieved beyond Widow's
Watch at this point in time and you will notice it is very little.

Anyway, thank you all for the comments and please leave more like them, they are
really appreciated!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

At Craster’s Keep they had been a strong party of one thousand, one hundred and twelve men.
Now they numbered just below one thousand. Death, division and disunity had splintered them
apart quicker than any wildling host could have.

It was at Craster’s that they had split. The morn that Craster was killed his Uncle Benjen had
mustered all the men loyal to him and left. The only one of his men he had left behind was Qhorin
Halfhand. “You are a foolish boy,” He had rebuked as he rode away, “But I have no intention of
returning your corpse to my brother. You will not listen to my counsel, but I beg you listen to his.
If you do, you might just survive this fool’s quest yet.”

Jon hadn’t responded, instead watched him in stony silence. The Greatjon hadn’t been so silent.
His wrath had been fearsome to behold. “Oathbreaker!” He had roared at Uncle Benjen, “Wildling
Lover! Traitor!” The insults had been many but the Hardstark had weathered them all with icy
indifference as he rode away.

The next to go was Sam. “Where we are going is no place for women, Sam.” Jon had told him as
Craster’s wives and daughters had filed out of his ramshackle keep. “You started them down this
path, Sam. You will finish it with them.”

“Take ten of the Winter Wolves and Benton Hellstark and ride for the Wall. You will be enough,
we know there are no wildings in between here and there.” Jon had instructed him.

“What then?” Sam had asked.

“Go home.” Jon had told him. “Your time with me is done. It is time for you to return to your
father and become the Lord we all know you are.”

Samwell Tarly had stared at him stoically for a moment, before breaking down into tears and
clasping him in a bear hug. “I’ll miss you.” He had told him. “You’ll have to come visit me down
south someday. The air’s much warmer down there.”

Jon had laughed. “So warm, I think I’d melt.”

Sam had laughed too and then he was gone as well, along with Benton Hellstark and ten winter
wolves. And so they had become nine hundred and eighty seven.

Two days later a Winter Wolf was thrown from his saddle while scouting and died of a broken
neck. That night, two black brother’s got into an argument and ended up drawing knives. One of
them slashed the other’s neck and Lord Commander Mormont was forced to slash the survivor.
And so they had become nine hundred and eighty four.

The next day, a pack of gaunt wolves attacked a group of black brother’s as they were foraging for
food. They beat them off but not before one of them had been vanquished.

The men began to mutter. Craster’s Curse they called it. The gods were punishing them the Winter
Wolves were muttering. It was the price for slaying Craster under his own roof the black brother’s
grumbled. Jon had caught more than one of them glaring at him as they rode past him and the Lord
Commander.

Lord Commander Mormont had been most wrathful himself. “If you were one of my men boy I
would have ripped the head from your shoulders for that. I came to Craster’s Keep in good faith,
partook of his bread and salt and drank of his mead. I slept under his roof. You sullied my honour
and the honour of all my men with what you did.”
If he was being honest with himself Jon was just glad that the men of the Night’s Watch had
stayed. He had been worried they were going to march back to the Wall too. Jon knew the
Weirwood Warriors were good, but the cost of facing off against a wildling horde with them and
the Winter Wolves alone would have taken their toll on all of them. If any other parts of his force
abandoned him, Jon would be forced to return to his father without breaking any of the wildling
hosts and with his tail tucked between his legs.

The shame would be painful, but losing so many fine men for a pointless stand would be even
more so. “Was I wrong?” He had asked Roderick Walton a few days later. “Are the gods punishing
us?”

“Perhaps.” Roderick replied. “Perhaps not. As for the gods, he who dares to claim to know their
will is often the first to be struck down. Mistakes have been made, Lord Jon, and not all of them by
you. Focus on the wars, Jon, not the battles. Craster was but a battle. Mance Rayder is the war.”

The next morning it was found that a Winter Wolf by the name of Bor had gone missing overnight.
It was then that whispered mutters became the spoken word. “We must head back!” A black
brother with boils all over his face cried, “The gods have cursed us.”

“We partook of his bread and salt!” A Winter Wolf whined, “And we slew him! What did we think
would happen?”

Mors Cassel had been there when the grumbling began and he had simply drawn his sword and
lain it at Jon’s feet. “My sword is yours, my lord.” His wolves had come and lay down at his feet
too, all ten of them. “My wolves as well. From this day to your last day. Your enemies are my
enemies, your friends are my friends. If gods have cursed you, let them curse me too. If men wish
to fight you, let them fight me first.”

That had done wonders for stopping the Winter Wolves from complaining, but the black brother’s
still whined. Surprisingly it was Lord Commander Mormont and Qhorin Halfhand who had
convinced them to go on. “Brothers!” Mormont had called, “Men of the Night’s Watch!”

His men had quietened to listen to him. “Mance Rayder lies somewhere to the North of us. He
means to break the Wall and bring red war to the Seven Kingdoms. Well, that’s a game two can
play. Why turn back when we can bring the war to him?”

“There are thousands of them!” Someone called.

“We’ll die!” Cried another.

“Die,” screamed Mormont’s raven, flapping it’s black wings. “Die, die, die.”

“Many of us.” The Old Bear said. “Mayhaps, even all of us. But as another Lord Commander said a
thousand years ago that is why they dress us in black. Remember your words, brothers.”

“For we are the swords in the darkness, the watchers on the walls…” Qhorin Halfhand had cried as
he raised his voice.

“The fire that burns against the cold.” Ser Mallador Locke drew his longsword.

“The light that brings the dawn,” others answered and more swords were pulled from scabbards.
Then all of them were drawing and it was near three hundred upraised swords and as many voices
crying, “The horn that wakes the sleepers! The shield that guards the realms of men!”

After that and Jon cracking open one of the casks of wine, most of the men of the Night’s Watch
seemed to find some courage. The next day no one died and their courage only grew. The talk of
Craster’s Curse died down.

They made good progress over the next four days and then they had made it too the Fist of the
First Men. It was there that they had set up camp. In the ruins of the great stone fortress that his
father had raised and the Thenn’s had torn down their party made camp.

The ice over the well in Fort Firstfist was cracked and the men had fresh water. Furthermore, one
of the Weirwood Warrior’s discovered a sealed storeroom filled with blood sausage and grain. The
men were feasted well that night, and Jon and Lord Commander Mormont had decided to send out
some scouts.

“They should be back by now.” Thoren Smallwood said as he leant into the small campfire within
the warmest and most complete room within the ruins. “If you had have let me and my men go, we
would have been back days ago.”

“I trust Roderick Walton.” Lord Commander Mormont growled. “He’ll bring us back word of
them.”

“Have you heard from Qhorin?” Jon asked as he sipped on the mulled wine Dolorous Edd and
Garth Mormont had prepared. Qhorin had been sent west into the Skirling Pass along with a few
Weirwood Warriors to scout out if there were any Wildlings there.

“No.” Mormont replied, “Though he should not be back for days yet.”

Outside a horn blew once. They all waited with bated breath, but it did not blow again. “Someone
is finally back.” The Greatjon grumbled. “Now we’ll know where to wage our war.”

The door to the tent flew open and in strode Roderick Walton, great golden eagle perched upon his
shoulder and his Grey War Wolf trotting at his heels. Of his black one, it was nowhere to be seen.

“We found them.” He said.

Thoren Smallwood leapt to his feet, while the Old Bear gave a grim smile.

“Where?” Jon asked, scarce daring to believe their luck.

“The Frostfangs.” Roderick replied, “By way of the Milkwater.”

The men in the room quieted at that. “What were they doing in the Frostfangs?”

“Looking for something.” Roderick replied as he shrugged off his white cloak and took a seat next
to the fire. “There’s a giant’s graveyard there. They’re digging it up.”

“What does Mance want with dead giants?” Thoren asked.

“Who knows?” The Old Bear rumbled, “Who cares? What I want to know is how big his horde
was?”

“Wildlings…perhaps ninety thousand. Ones that could fight though…not even half of that. He has
all of them with him. Old men, young boys, babes and their mothers and little girls too.” Roderick
turned to Jon. “Give me and my men half a chance, Lord Jon, and we’ll cut through them like a
knife through cheese. I’ll slay the turncloak myself.”

Jon shook his head at the Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors. “There will be no need for
that.” He told him. “We will stand against them together, or not at all.”

“We will need more men.” The Greatjon said as he got to his feet. “We will not be able to take on a
horde of that size with what we have.” He turned to the Old Bear. “How long will it take your
fastest men to ride to Castle Black and bring more men?”

“Too long.” Jon said. “It took us a month to get here. Perhaps a few riders moving fast could make
it back in three weeks, but it would take them just as long, if not longer to make it back with a
meaningful force. And that’s without accounting for the actual gathering of the forces.”

“Perhaps we could treat with him.” Ser Mallador Locke suggested. “Maybe he can be brought off
with gold or supplies.”

The Greatjon spat on the floor twice. “That’s what I think of meeting with Mance.”

Jon glanced up at Roderick Walton. “Are they moving?”

“No.” Roderick replied. “They’ve set up camp in a valley, and it doesn’t look like they have moved
in a long time.”

“Do you reckon they will move soon?” Jon asked.

“I doubt it.” Roderick replied. “It would take time to prepare to move a host of that size. I have
men watching the valley. At the first sign of movement, they will send me word.”

“Good then.” Jon said as he turned back to the fire. “We still have some time. Not a lot, but more
than we need.”

“What are you planning boy?” Thoren Smallwood asked, his eyes squinted in suspicion. “More
madness?”

“Aye.” Jon told him honestly. “More madness. We’ll need my uncle and all his men back, and then
some more.” He got to his feet and strode to the window. It faced east. “I’ll ride out tonight. He
shouldn’t be too far, two weeks if I’m lucky.”

“He doesn’t want to come back.” The Old Bear muttered. “From what I remember he called this a
fool’s quest.”

“He’ll come back.” Jon replied. “He has too. I’ll do whatever it takes. We need him, and his men.”

“One hundred men will help boy,” Thoren told him, “But it won’t make much difference against a
horde of that size.”

“A hundred won’t. Another one thousand will.”

“And where will you pull these one thousand men from?” The Greatjon asked.

“Hardhome.” Jon exclaimed. “The garrison of Hardhome. They are made up of the finest Winter
Wolves my father had, and they’ve spent years in these lands as well. We won’t be able to destroy
their horde, but we will be break them and end all murmurings of kings in these lands for another
one hundred years.”

The room was silent. No one looked convinced. “Hardhome is further than Castle Black.” Ser
Mallador argued. “We’d be better off sending riders to them.”

“Aye it is closer.” Jon agreed. “And it will be quicker for a rider to get there. But it won’t be
quicker to march an army back.” Jon ran to the map they had unrolled on the floor. “Hardhome has
ships. We can load the Winter Wolves onto the ships and sail them straight up the Antler River. A
week of sailing and it’ll put them only a few days march from here.”

“Aye.” The Old Bear agreed. “That could work. We’d have what…two thousand men at that point.
Mance would not brush us aside easily.”

“And not from here either.” The Greatjon agreed. “We wouldn’t even have to march out to meet
them. We could fortify the Fist; caltrops, pits and stakes. He would lose ten of his for every one of
us, and he would still need the god’s fortune to win the day.”

“He could just march right past us though.” The Old Bear muttered, “What then?”

“No he couldn’t.” Thoren Smallwood disagreed. “He couldn’t leave a force as large as we are at
his rear. We would be too big of a threat for him. If he ignored us he’d find himself trapped
between the brothers on the Wall and the brothers at the Fist.”

“It is decided then.” Jon said. “I’ll ride out tonight.”

“With who though?” The Greatjon asked. “You won’t survive these lands long by yourself.”

“I’ll take Jorge Snow and Arthur Glenmore. Garth Mormont will come too. We should make good
time just the four of us.”

“I will come too.” The Greatjon said.

“No.” Jon responded. “You are needed here. The more men I take from this fist, the more
dangerous everyone’s job becomes. This is a journey that needs be done with as few men as
possible.”

The Greatjon shook his head but he did not voice any more protests. Jon nodded at them all. “I’ll
see you all in a few weeks. Until then, keep safe.”

With that he turned and marched out the door. He found Arthur Glenmore and Jorge Snow not far
away, crouched around a campfire with a few Winter Wolves and two brothers of the Night’s
Watch. The son of Karlon Northstark looked up as he approached. His bushy brown beard was
streaked with white with frost and his arms were tucked into the pits of his arms.

Regardless though, he smiled when he saw him and raised a hand in greeting. Jon waved back,
before sitting on the fallen boulder next to him. “Have we found them yet?” Arthur Glenmore
asked.

“Aye.” Jon replied. “They are camped up in the Frostfangs, along the banks of Milkwater.”

“How many?” One of the black brother’s asked. “Seventy thousand the scouts told me.”

Low murmuring filled the fireplace and a sense of despair settled over the group. “I ride tonight in
pursuit of my uncle and his men.” Jon told the men. “We will have need of him and his men before
our wars are done.” He grasped Jorge around the shoulders and stared Arthur Glenmore in the eye.
“Will you come with me brothers? Will you ride with me?”

Arthur Glenmore grinned with delight and drew his sword from its sheath before thrusting it into
the air. “Does the High Septon worship the seven?”

“No.” Jorge replied drily. “He worships R’hollr.”

The men laughed and Arthur looked momentarily put out by Jorge’s interruption, before a grin
graced his features once more and he stood. “When do we leave?”

“We ride tonight do we not?” Jorge asked.

“Aye.” Jon replied. “Tonight, before the sun has set. I mean to get a few good hours of riding in
before we run out of daylight.”

“A very sensible idea.” Jorge told him. “Will it be just us?”

“Us, Garth and Ghost.”

“Great!” Arthur Glenmore replied. “Four men and one dog is a good number for a quest. All the
tales and Old Nan agree. It’s a lucky number.”

“No more lucky than seven and no less lucky than six.” Jorge snorted before shaking his head.
“Well then,” He said as he rode to his feet. “Shall we ride?”

“Aye, Jorge.” Jon replied. “I’ll see you both at the gates within the hour.”

They both nodded and went about gathering the rest of their things before striding away. Jon
nodded at the rest of the men present, before turning and seeking out the company of the last pack
brothers he had left here.

Surprisingly, he found Brynden Bloodstark and Smalljon Umber together. Unsurprisingly, they
were both brawling. The Smalljon had a bloody nose, while Brynden Bloodstark had one black eye
and blood dribbling out of his mouth. A few black brothers were surrounding them, egging them
on, along with Daryn Hornwood and Harrion Karstark.

Smalljon swung a right hook, but Brynden ducked out of the way and followed up with a knee into
his groin. The Smalljon grunted, before snapping his arm out and grabbing Brynden around the
throat.

“Enough.” Jon commanded. The Black Brothers turned on him scowls, before ducking their heads
and slinking away. The Smalljon ignored him, only continuing to grasp Brynden by the neck.
“Enough.” Jon said louder.

The Smalljon turned and saw him, and dropped the Bloodstark heir straight away. “Jon.” He
greeted.

“Jon.” Jon greeted back. “Brynden.” He said as he inclined his head at him.

The Bloodstark bared a bloody grin. “Thon.” He slurred. “We were jutht hawing thome fwun.”

Jon smiled tightly at the pair of them. “I’m leaving.”

Daryn Hornwood started at that. “What?” He cried. “Why?”

“We have need of my uncle.” He told them. “I expect you all to be alive when I get back. Until
then, Daryn is in charge.”

Daryn gaped at him, but Jon gave him no chance to protest. He turned and marched away. He
found Garth and Ghost waiting for him by his horse when he got back. Garth had Longclaw
strapped to the saddle of his own horse, while Jon’s spare sword was at the saddle of his. “Your
supplies and belongings are packed, Lord Jon.”
 Jon nodded at the boy, before swinging astride his horse and spurring it on to the gates. At the
gates he found Jorge and Arthur awaiting him, along with Roderick Walton and the Greatjon. “My
lords.” He greeted as he approached. “Brothers.”

Roderick Walton nodded at him. “Good luck, Lord Jon. Godspeed to you, and all your men.”

Jon nodded and turned back to the Greatjon. “Look after all these men, Lord Umber. And if I do
not return…give the wildlings hell for me…and then take your blooded blade to that fuckwit
Robert calls a son.”

The Greatjon grinned at his first statement and burst into roars of laughter at his second. “It shall
be done, my Lord.”

Jon shared one last laugh with him, before turning his horse and leading his small party down the
great earthen ramp that was the entrance to Fort Firstfist. Ghost sprung away and disappeared into
the scrub, while Jorge Snow pulled out a carven lute and put it to his lips. He began to play, and
not very well either.

Arthur casually pulled his bow from his back and nocked an arrow onto the string. “If you plan to
play that from here to wherever the Hardstark is I will put an arrow through your tongue, you know
that right?”

Jorge scowled at him, but put the lute back in his pack. Jon smiled. It was good to be away from
the mass of men and back with those he knew best. Two weeks riding lay before them now, two
weeks of bliss and peace, and then two moons of war.

Jon only hoped he would prove to be the one who could conquer this King-Beyond-The-Wall. He
wouldn’t be the first Stark to die at a wildlings blade after all.

And if Craster had taught Jon anything it was that Wildlings were not the worst things that prowled
these woods…

Chapter End Notes

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